Spoken in Jest

I

THE ample, blue-ginghamed, somewhat disheveled maid moved with a yielding heaviness about the table, preparing it for breakfast. The misty sunlight of early May shone through the room, infusing its dull insignificance with a delicate warmth, a subdued reflection of the green and gold morning that enveloped the little house. The air from the open window, fresh with the cool smell of leaves, mingled with the fumes of hot charred bacon, the odor of eggs, thickly fried; the vapor from the thick blue platter on the table curved upward, floated back, in faint twisting spirals. Against the brown nondescript paper of the wall, the prints, Watt’s figure of Hope, and Sir Galahad, shone with a clear grayness within their reddish frames.

Rose Canby came slowly through the door that led to the kitchen. She was carrying a plate of biscuit — carrying it with a certain professional air, as of a duty customarily performed. She placed it on one of the mats that dotted the varnished golden surface of the table, and then went to the other door.

‘John!’ she called.

A nervous tap of feet sounded on the stairway. The door opened, and John Canby came bustling into the room. He took his seat deliberately, his usual gesture of ineffectual haste subdued by a certain importance, an air of responsibility, borne with an evident sense of enjoyment. He straightened out the newspaper, glanced at it for an instant, and then looked expectantly at his wife.

‘ I have so much to do to-day — I don’t see how I’ll ever get it done!’

He sighed pleasantly, and then peered at her with vague, anxious eyes, as if seeking sympathy. His wrinkled face, habitually perplexed, lined with trifling worries, seemed that of a prematurely old, rather precise, child.

‘You’ve no idea how much work there is in one of these dinners,’ he added. ‘It’s the twenty-fifth anniversary, and we expect the Governor and the Attorney-General both to attend! ’ There was a note of personal triumph in his voice.

Rose Canby smiled, a tolerant, understanding smile; it had grown more tolerant, more understanding, and a little sadder, as the years of their married life had increased. Her brown eyes, startlingly clear in the thin face, with its delicate coloring of faded rosepetal, were maternal, protective.

‘It will be fine, won’t it?’ She had said that each day at breakfast for a week.

Canby nodded. ‘They could n’t run the Six-o’-Clock Club without me,’ he said. His spare shoulders straightened, and he brushed back the thin gray hair from his forehead. ‘This is my tenth year as Secretary, Rose — before Mr. Stone died. Remember?’ His smile was pathetically bright and eager. ‘You’ve no idea how much detail there is in getting up a big dinner. They say down at the office’ — his accent lingered with reverence upon the last word — ‘that I’m the finest detail man they ever had! Why ’ — he beamed across at her with open, childlike pride, — ‘Mr. Stone said to me the other day, “ Canby, if we did n’t have you to supervise our accounting, the firm of Hemphill, Stone, Wilberforce & Jennings would have to devote its talents to the unprofitable art of pleading causes!’” He threw out his narrow chest, clutched the lapels of his loose blue coat. ‘Mr. Stone is right, too, and the office knows it!’

His wife looked at him with quiet tolerance; there was a hint of wistfulness in her glance, a suggestion of something veiled, affectionately ignored.

‘John,’ she said, ‘when do you think they’ll take you into the firm — this year?’ Her voice was hopeful, a little blurred, as if quite purposefully she was magnifying a possibility that lay before her.

Canby looked up from his plate. ‘Why, Rose! I can’t expect that for a long time! I’ve only been with the firm for twelve years, and I’ve only been first assistant for three! You don’t understand!’ He smiled knowingly. ‘It takes years to get into a firm like Hemphill, Stone, Wilberforce & Jennings — there’s none better in the city! I’ve always considered it an honor to be associated with them. Why, my dear!’ His voice rose triumphantly. ‘You forget, if it had n’t been for Mr. Stone, I would n’t be Secretary of the Sixo’-Clock Club!' His worried little face glowed wit h pride, a nd settled into assurance at the conclusiveness of his answer.

‘Yes, John,’ she said gently. ‘You always seem to know distinguished men. But,’ she persisted, ‘I wish — sometimes— they appreciated you a little more! There’s young Mr. Carter —’

‘Oh, Carter!’ Canby replied. A shadow of disappointment crossed his face. ‘They did take him in this year. But,’he added reassuringly, ‘he has very wide connections — he’s quite rich himself. And besides, he’s an unusually good speaker.’ He paused for a moment, and then leaned across the table. ‘As a matter of fact, my dear, he’s very superficial — no man for detail at all! He comes to me with all his accounts — I’m straightening him out constantly!’

‘Yes?’ she said, and then reached over and patted his hand.

When he left for the garage she stood at the doorway, waiting for him to back the car up to the circle in front of the house. He did it slowly, precisely, his black derby hat placed very seriously upon his head. The car stopped exactly opposite the door, and he looked up at her with an air of accomplishment. ‘I won’t be home till late,’ he said cheerily. ‘ Don’t wait for me.’

‘I won’t,’ she answered. Then she walked to the car and held up her face to his. ‘Kiss me good-bye,’ she said.

For a moment she lingered in the doorway, watching the car slip away over the smooth gray road. The little settlement of white, plastered houses, neat, trim, proudly exposed to each other across diminutive strips of wellkept grass, shone with a clear newwashed radiance in the misty gold of the sunlight. In its ordered precision, its careful spacing of slim, symmetrical trees, in the intricate pattern of small circling driveways, the tiny garages all alike, and standing very firm and boxlike at the end of white cemented runways, it seemed curiously complete; enveloped in a placid and comfortable self-sufficiency. Her eyes rested on the big sign that flanked the entrance from the pike — the words ‘Buckingham Manor’ were printed on it, in high black letters. She looked beyond it, to a wide range of rich deep-shadowed wood, a pale expanse of rolling lawns, and the white gleam of pillars hidden behind shrubbery.

II

The elevator stopped at the twelfth floor, and Canby walked briskly across the hallway to the double doors of the office. His heart warmed with a little thrill of pride at the sight of the names: the firm in solid, impersonal severity on one door, a long row of individual names on the other; his own, John Canby, heading the list that lay below a straight black line. Inside, the wide, clear-lighted space, yellow-carpeted, bordered with high mahogany benches, was empty, expectant; the dull glass doors of the partitioned offices were open; at the far end the office boy was sorting the mail. Two of the stenographers, with coats and hats still on, disappeared around the corner that led to the library.

He walked past the offices with quick bustling steps; a feeling of coming activity, of importance, enveloped and stimulated him. He paused for a second before the big office at the end, caught a glimpse of the interior: the smooth surface of the walls, cut with the dark outline of engravings; a patch of scarlet and orange gleaming against a dull gray carpet; the desk, broad, shining, bare of papers; and a tall leather chair. Resting against the back of the chair was a face, motionless behind a lifted sheet of paper. The great coarse features, aggressive, jutting in outline, were in repose; in their suave immobility, their intense, almost ominous concentration, they seemed the embodiment of some subtle, corrosive, and magnificent force.

Canby drew a deep breath, his heart beat a little faster; turning, he walked with firm steps down the corridor to his office.

At his desk was a pile of thick, bluebacked accounts, the sheets of legal cap covered with columns of figures. He took up the first one and read the items as a musician reads the notes of music; he detected an error — an item of income included in principal; a glow of pride, a sense of efficiency, stirred comfortably beneath his absorption in the figures. This was his contribution to the greatness of Hemphill, Stone, Wilberforce & Jennings. No one could do this work as he could. Even Mr. Stone himself . . .

He looked up, smiled at the office boy, and glanced quickly at the typewritten memorandum he dropped on the desk. The chief wanted a brief on the liability of an elevator company. He read the facts carefully — they were complicated, including several parties. He studied the paper hard, driving the facts into his mind. They seemed extraordinarily separate,—it was difficull, somehow, to get them together and to know just what point of law Was involved. Abstract questions always confused him this way — gave him a sense of being at sea mentally. He never knew quite where to begin — there were so many possible places. He put down the paper slowly, and his eyes rested upon the account before him, so clear and intelligible in its regular sequence of figures. He sighed; a premonition of long and hopeless floundering in the library beset him. The language of cases was so difficult to understand.

‘Hello, Canby — thinking it out, are you?’

He looked up at young Carter, standing in the doorway. Vaguely, he felt a little frightened, as if the latter had detected his confusion.

‘Yes,’ he said cheerfully, ‘got, a question from the chief.’

‘Have you?’ Carter’s eyes brightened. ‘Let’s see it.’ He took the memorandum from Canby’s hand and glanced over it. ‘Ruled by Fernald vs. Quillen, in 261 Pa. I should judge,’ he said carelessly; and then put the memorandum on the desk. ‘ Six-o’-Clock Club to-night, is n’t it? I suppose you’re very busy.’ There was a gleam of kindly malice in his eyes.

‘I am,’nodded Canby. He freshened perceptibly, and looked at Carter with an air of importance. ‘I have charge of all the arrangements.’

‘I know you have,’ said Carter. He jerked his head toward the door. ‘The chief’s going, he tells me.’

‘Really?’ A faint flush spread over Canby’s face. ‘I’ll see he’s well taken care of. The Governor and the Attorney-General will both be there.’

He looked eagerly at Carter, as if awaiting his enthusiasm.

Carter smiled indulgently, and the look of kindly malice in his eyes deepened. ‘ It ’ll be a rough party — a lot of quick talk — you want to watch out they don’t kid you!’

Canby laughed uneasily. ‘They won’t kid me, I’m sure. They never have.’

‘They kid everybody, don’t they?’ said Carter, still smiling at him.

‘ Pretty nearly. It’s rough sometimes — a man has to have a quick comeback.’ He looked up timidly. ‘I don’t believe I could handle it as well as some of them,’ he said.

Carter leaned over and patted his shoulder. ‘I don’t believe they’ll try to put anything over on you, Canby. You’re not the kind.’ His fingers closed persuasively about his arm. ‘I wonder if you could help me out with a little question of invested capital — the papers are on my desk.’

Canby rose with alacrity. ‘Certainly,’ he said.

At three o’clock he carefully arranged the papers on his desk, took his hat from the tree, and went to the stenographers’ room. ‘I’m going to the Harrington and then to Tom Moran’s office. Have the menus come yet?’

One of the girls handed him a pasteboard box. ‘I suppose you’ll be busy with the dinner the rest of the afternoon?’ she asked.

‘I’m afraid so. There’s always so much to arrange at the last minute.’ He paused at the door, the box held closely under his arm. ‘You see — they rely on me at the hotel — I have to tell them all just what to do.’

The girl smiled sympathetically. ‘I don’t believe they could run that dinner without you, Mr. Canby,’ she said.

He walked down the pavement, very erect and eager, the box clutched tightly beneath his arm. The moving, restless mass hurried before him, about him: heads swaying in ceaseless varying rhythm; colors — orange, henna, scarlet, flashes of white, the dull gleam of gray and brown and black, all weaving a shifting changing pattern through the dusty sunlight; the thin sharpness of the shadows, the harsh, unceasing noises of the street. He felt very happy, an important significant unit in the urgent life about him. He held his head high, looked quickly at the faces that passed him, nodded with genial curtness at an acquaintance; a sudden vision of the crowded room at the Harrington, of the speeches and the applause, came to him; unconsciously he walked a little faster.

At the corner he hesitated, looked up at the tall figure that was approaching, and waited for recognition. The face was turned from him; he caught only a glimpse of the hard clear profile, the high cheek-bones, the wide sensitive mouth, compressed into a grim and steel-like firmness. He looked again, met the eyes, gray, veiled, a little savage; they shone suddenly with a light of recognition, and the man waved his hand. Canby felt suddenly warmed — the glance was so friendly, so inclusive.

‘I’m coming to your office at five o’clock,’ he shouted after him. The other nodded his head without stopping.

‘Big man, Tom Moran,’ he thought as he stood at the corner, waiting for the traffic to pass by him. The famous speeches of Moran came to his mind; his extraordinary career, so paradoxical, so completely fitting the man himself. Engineering rotten bills through the legislature; defending a disbarred lawyer without pay; his practice — tinged with a criminal strain; his devoted loyalty to clients, his sudden outbursts of idealist ic eloquence. He was President of the Six-o’-Clock Club, and, Canby reflected, almost as deeply interested in it as he himself.

He glanced down the street, at the tall gray bulk of the hotel before him. The Club flag was out, a white square of linen cut by a wooden spoon that crossed a ram’s head in the centre.

‘ Confound them! ’ he thought. ‘ Why could n’t they hang it straight .’

The revolving doors enclosed him, propelled him into the subdued bustle of the lobby. A boy ran up to take the box, but he shook his head. Passing the big crimson chairs, the crimson sofas, ornate, formally luxurious, the women, waiting apathetically, with hands folded upon stout laps, he reached the elevator. On the crimson board beside the desk he saw the words, in small white letters — ‘Six-o’-Clock Club — The Ballroom at Seven To-night.’

The room was littered with greens; the decorators were just finishing their work. He stood for a moment, surveying the table. The main table extended across the room; the five branches reached from it in parallel lines. Vacant, with the light of day shining dully upon the white cloth, it seemed small, easily comprehended, an insignificant setting for a distinguished company. He picked his way to the centre of the main table. The ram’s head, mounted on a flat oval of ebony, lay just beyond the centre plate; beside it lay a gavel and a smooth block of polished wood.

He put down his box and took out his cards. ‘The Honorable Thomas Moran.’ For a moment he looked at his own round legible writing. And then, very deliberately, with a certain reverent precision, he placed the cards along the centre table. His glance lingered upon the names; he would see them to-morrow in the paper — would read them, very slowly, to Rose at breakfast, look up at her, and wait for her to smile. His hand shook with a little tremor of excitement, of anticipation, — Rose was so proud of him, — she so enjoyed hearing about the dinner!

The headwaiter, white-haired, deliberate, and venerable, approached with soft, flat-footed steps. ‘It will be a big company to-night, Mr. Canby,’ he said with a quiet, deprecatory lisp. ‘The t wenty-fift h anniversary? ’

‘It is,’ said Canby, expansively. ‘And you’ve seen them all, have n’t you, Jules?’

The old man nodded, paused for a moment, his hand on the back of a chair. ‘Yes, all,’ he said simply. ‘I have been headwaiter now for thirty years.’ His dull blue eyes lighted with a reminiscent gleam. ‘I remember well the first dinner. It has always been a big affair.’ He inclined his head gravely. ‘ I stay and listen to the speeches. They are so sharp and witty.’ He smiled frankly at Canby.

‘They are, indeed!’ Canby nodded.

' Ah, yes,’ the old man sighed. ‘ There have been some famous men — I have heard them,—back and forth, back and forth,’ — he moved his arm with a quick gesture, — ‘like lightning, so swift t hey were with their answers.’ He looked keenly at his listener. ‘You, Mr. Canby, you sit at the table of honor — maybe some time, to-night, you will make a speech! I should like to hear you throw it back at them!’

‘Would you?’ Canby beamed upon him. ‘I’m afraid I could n’t do it as well as the others, Jules.’

The old man bowed gravely. ‘I’m sure you could,’ he answered.

III

At precisely five o’clock, Canby opened the door that led into the outer office of Thomas Moran. It was a cavernous, dingy, ill-arranged room; the walls were lined with books — they sprawled over the table, about the scattered piles of paper, the legal periodicals, the hats of the waiting men, seated, in anxious immobility, their eyes vaguely turned toward the inner office.

‘Mr. Canby, a member of the bar, to see Mr. Moran,’ he said firmly, to one of the stenographers.

She surveyed him, and then walked with petulant languor to the door.

‘ Mr. Canby, member of the bar,’ she announced in one word.

Canby heard Moran’s voice; the girl nodded, and he entered the inner office.

Moran’s foot was on the desk, he was leaning back comfortably in his chair. ‘Hello, Canbv,’ he said easily. He motioned toward a chair. ‘Sit down there by Judge Walsh and keep him in order.’

Canby turned, bowed formally to the white-haired, red-faced man who was gently tilting against the wall.

‘How are you, Canby?’ The judge steadied himself, and extended his hand, his genial face illumined by a facile, swiftly passing smile. ‘Have n’t seen you in our court for a long time! What’s the matter — settling everything?' He laughed, a short satisfied chuckle, as if he had answered the question himself, and then turned to the man seated by him.

‘Mr. Yerger, this is Mr. Canby, of Hemphill, Stone, Wilberforce & Jennings. Your offices don’t meet as often as they should, I imagine.’ He looked up at Moran. ‘How was that —pretty good, eh?’ He chuckled again, beamed at Canby and Yerger, and wagged his head knowingly.

Canby leaned forward in his chair, and saluted Yerger with friendly embarrassment. The latter inclined his head; his sharp close-set eyes held a glint of amused tolerance; he looked at Canby as if he expected him to do some absurd, extraordinary thing. His gaze made Canby feel uncomfortable; the elation, the pleasant sense of familiarity left him, and he twisted his hands nervously.

‘All ready for the dinner?’ Moran asked. There was a touch of mockery in his voice; his eyes were inscrutable, smiling; the corners of his mouth drooped ironically. ‘Mr. Canby runs the Six-o’-Clock Club,’ he said to Yerger.

‘Oh, no,’ protested Canby. ‘I only look after the details!’ The worried lines of his face relaxed. ‘I’ve just come from the hotel, Mr. Moran. Everything is going along very nicely. The flag is out — they hung it crooked, and I told them to straighten it!' He moved his hands in a condescending, disdainful gesture. ‘The decorators are all through — they’ve done a fairly good job of it. I was there for an hour or so, to make certain they had everything right. The ram’s head and the gavel are at your place, and I arranged all the cards for the centre table.’

He walked over to the desk, the diagram in his hand.

‘This is the order of seating. You see,’ — he leaned over and spread out the paper, carefully indicating the small circles with his finger, — ‘I put the Governor on your right, the Attorney-General on your left, and,’ he looked inquiringly at Moran, ‘ I thought I’d put Mr. Stone next to the AttorneyGeneral — if you approve.’ He moved back and waited.

‘That’s all right,’ said Moran heartily. ‘You do a lot of work on this dinner, don’t you?’

Canby’s strained blue eyes wavered a little; the color crept into his face, and he looked inordinately pleased.

‘I take a great interest in the Club,’ he said solemnly.

Moran’s gaze was quizzical, curious, as if probing the extent of some weakness.

’Let’s see, how long have you run the Club?’ he said.

‘I’ve been Secretary for ten years.’ Canby lifted his chin with dignity. ‘I look after all the details myself. I consider it a very important work.’

‘Yes,’ said Moran, his eyes still fixed on him, ‘you’ve taken quite a load off my shoulders!’

Canby’s eyebrows arched significantly. ‘That’s my job. You see,’ he looked candidly at Moran, ‘I have a gift for that kind of thing.’

‘So I observe,’ said the other. ‘Do you know, I don’t believe we could hold our dinners without you!’

‘I don’t believe you could,’ said Canby emphatically.

There was a significant silence after the door closed behind him. Moran took his foot down from the desk, leaned forward, and stared into space as if at some invisible object.

‘Strange, is n’t it?’ he said meditatively. ‘Even a little fellow like that!’ His eyes were mournful, very clear, as if suddenly emerged from behind a veiled and inscrutable hardness. ‘We all go about wrapped in the illusion of our own greatness. I suppose we could n’t live if we did n’t. No one is ever quite cruel enough to tell us what we really are.’

The corners of his mouth drooped bitterly, a little sadly; the wistful, hungry look of the frustrated dreamer was on his face.

He glanced suddenly at the judge with a flash of savage, distorted humor.

‘No one ever dares to tell you, do they? A benevolent, old stuffed shirt, just dripping with sentimentality, are n’t you?’

His smile was engaging, disarming, altogether delightful.

The judge puffed out his lips, wrinkled his forehead, and then decided to laugh.

‘Must show respect to the bench, counselor,’ he said, throwing back his shoulders, and then collapsing comfortably against the wall. ‘Set a bad example to Yerger.’ He wagged his head portentously.

Yerger rose. ‘You know — that little fellow, Canby — he reminds me of my ten-year-old boy. I got him a tin watch the other day — just to see what he’d do with it. Well, the boy thinks he and that watch are just about the biggest things in the world! I was reminded of that kid all t he time Canby was talking.’

He paused before the desk, his eyes dilated, and he looked at Moran as if suddenly seized by an idea.

‘Tom, why don’t you liven things up a bit. to-night?’

‘I expect to,’ said t he other carelessly.

‘I’ll tell you one way to do it.’

‘How?’ Moran’s eyes gleamed with sudden interest.

‘Present Canby with a tin watch,’ said Yerger deliberately. ‘Make a fine presentation speech, the kind you’re good at, and then give him the watch. You’ll bring down the house.’

Moran looked away; the wrinkles about his eyes lengthened, and his mouth curved in an unpleasant line.

‘It would make a hit, would n’t it?’ he said thoughtfully.

He turned to Yerger; his smile was bright and bitter; in the sudden baring of teeth there was something ruthless, predatory. He stretched lazily. ‘It’s a very amusing idea, Yerger. Get the watch, will you?’

IV

It was nearly half-past seven — in a very few minutes, Canby thought, the music would start and they would go in to dinner. His heart was beating with suppressed excitement; a thrilling, intoxicating sense of his own importance pervaded him, enveloping him in sudden delightful waves of agitation; his head was very erect, his face shone with a smooth pallor above the black of his dress coat. Instinctively he moved toward the placid bulk that stood beside him in the receiving line, glanced at the face, broad, serene, lit with a potent merriness. The Governor enjoyed the Six-o’-Clock dinners; always remembered him, called him by his first name. He had placed a large hand, when the line was forming, upon his shoulder, held him, persuasively, at his side. Human sort, and a good man, in spite of what some people said. One of the judges approached, and he bowed excitedly, his face wrinkled into a deferential importance.

The music started, and the receiving line moved forward into the ballroom. Canby looked proudly over the room — at the long, white tables, gleaming beneath long rows of candles, the banked, glossy background of green leaves, the majestic spread of the flag, square and insistent against the transplanted foliage. His work, he thought; a worthy preparation for a night of distinction, of significance.

He glanced at the corner, at the reporters, alert, detached, casually informal. They represented the outside world, quite willing to hear what was said, to know of what was done, at the Six-o’-Clock Club dinners. They recognized him, John Canby, as the moving spirit; he would talk with them very pleasantly after the dinner. He determined to call them ’boys’ to-night — he had always wanted to.

He took his seat at the far end of the main table, leaned forward, and looked down the row of faces. There were twelve between him and Moran. Not a man who had not made his mark, who was not what t he newspapers called ‘prominent.’ The Attorney-General, massive, gray-haired, with a curled, combative mouth, was talking with Mr. Stone. His glance wandered vaguely over the assemblage; he twisted the cord of his menu absently — he was thinking of his speech, Canby surmised.

The Governor was placidly eating his clams; as a solid business man he had no reputation to sustain. He would give them a plain talk, poke a lot of fun, and take plenty back. A voice from one of the tables sounded above the murmur, the bustling clatter of the dishes. Someone had taken a shot at the Governor. A slow smile spread over his face as he sought out the speaker; he looked down meditatively, as if preparing a reply.

The noise grew perceptibly as the dinner progressed. Canby listened, watched, with an increasing enjoyment. Men walked from table to table, leaned over, beat each other on the shoulders, laughed uproariously. Little scraps of song floated out, were caught and echoed from distant corners. Pungent remarks— personal, political, their edge sheathed in laughter — flashed across the room; forgotten incidents in the lives of notables, mere allusions, veiled, biting, calling forth a swift and trenchant retort. At times Canby held his breath. A thin cloud of smoke drifted above the heads of the diners; the chairs swayed, tilted back; a steady clatter of dishes, piled and removed, the soft thud of hurrying waiters, sounded in a monotonous undertone through the crackle of conversation.

‘They’re going now, are n’t they?’ he said enthusiastically to the man next him.

The other turned a mild amused eye upon him. He was a middle-aged banker, grave, with a reputation for sagacity. ‘Politicians like to make fun of each other,’ he said impassively.

Moran leaned forward, took up the gavel, and beat vigorously upon the block of wood. Then he rose and looked out across the sea of faces. He seemed perfectly at ease, insolently, charmingly, master of the situation. He stood through the applause, a little smile, half-friendly, half-provocative, on his lips.

The noise subsided, and a low drawling voice from the corner uttered a remark. A burst of laughter followed. Moran drew back; his smile became fixed; he glanced toward the corner, found his man, and then shot his retort , pleasant, inquiring, venomously barbed.

The room rocked with laughter. Canby felt a little thrill of admiration, of fear almost, at its perfect bald brutality. How those fellows could hit each other — it was wonderful! He looked at Mr. Stone — he seemed grimly pleased, as if at an exhibition of some merited chastisement.

Moran continued. His clear, commanding voice, with its low, almost boyish note at the end of each sentence, slowly dominated the room, slowly subdued the restless humor of the listeners by the magic of its virile and sardonic humanity. The jokes became less frequent , ceased, blighted by the inevitable answer.

The men sat without moving, caught into the magnetic silence that envelops an eloquent speech. To Canby it seemed as if, in some mysterious fashion, Moran had laid hold of them, held them by the sheer force of his personality, vividly, overwhelmingly expressed. And yet, such restraint, such poise, such intellectual litheness! Wonderful that a man could hold three hundred men by the sheer force of spoken words — restless, turbulent, keen-witted men, only too anxious to strike when occasion offered.

He wondered vaguely how it was done, what quality was needed that he had not been given. It seemed so easy now, he could almost imagine himself doing it. He looked out over the hardy, capable faces, imagined himself standing up against stinging remarks, hurling back crushing answers. He could do it, if he could only conquer the fear — the paralyzing, nauseating fear that swept over him when he got on his feet. One of the men turned, looked steadily at him, and he dropped his eyes.

‘John Canby.’ He heard the words; saw Moran look toward him. His heart leaped, then fell with a sickening descent. The blood rushed to his face. Everybody was looking at him; the low rustle of shifting heads sounded in his ears like the audible breath of some monster.

‘Our worthy Secretary.’ The words came from a distance. He saw the Governor lean forward and smile; the faces before him seemed kindly, amused. Nothing had happened. Their eyes left him; the man at ins side nodded in friendly fashion, and then turned away, intent upon Moran.

‘John Canby, our worthy Secretary.’ The phrase rang in his ears. Moran had said that. He had spoken of him, John Canby, as a factor in the success of the Six-o’-Clock Club, said it definitely, to everyone. A comfortable warmth pervaded him, a feeling of great good-will and thankfulness, a calm sustaining assurance of his own value and place among men. His service was appreciated, it was all that he thought it was. Someone had to attend to the details, and there were very few who could do such work as he could. They knew that at the office — now they knew it here, to-night. He would tell Rose just what Moran had said; she would n’t mind being wakened — it would make her so happy. A feeling of pride, of elation possessed him — a sense of power — a capacity to do great things. He looked out over the assemblage with a steady sweeping gaze, his shoulders very erect, his mouth consciously drawn into a line of deep and restrained repose.

The Attorney-General was quarrelsome, Canby thought. He could n’t hold the men as Moran could. The latter had given him a difficult introduction and had received a sharp blow in return. Canby saw him, moody, reflective, twisting bits of bread between his fingers as the Attorney-General pounded through his speech. The remarks had begun again; the majority of the men were opposed to the speaker politically. He grew heated and argumentative; the men sat back in their chairs, staring sombrely at him, turning to each other at some remark, shooting back a question with startling directness. A steady fire of heckling began in the back of the room; it was broad, bitter, and to the point —quite obviously disconcerting. The speaker struggled against it, overcame it for the moment by a sudden eloquent attack, and then sat down abruptly. The applause was tremendous, sarcastic in its exaggerated insistence.

Moran arose and stood, waiting for the applause to subside. To Canby he seemed the physical embodiment of careless indifferent strength, capable of pitiless attack, of indomitable defense. There was something mocking in his smile, a grim and bitter humor, playing above a suppressed ferocity. He was angry, that was apparent, and he was going to take it out on someone, in some way!

Very easily he touched upon the Attorney-General’s speech, drove home a dart, received the laughter without moving a muscle. He hesitated, and then turned slowly toward Canby. His voice lowered, became softer, gentle, almost caressing in tone. He put his hand in his pocket, took out a small object, held it concealed. Canby watched him, fascinated ; he felt a faint suffocation, a vague stifling fear of something about to happen. The whole room was silent, caught by a sudden sense of the unusual.

Moran’s eyes met Canby’s; he leaned forward a little, as if addressing him, and then turned to his audience.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘I want to pay a tribute to our friend, John Canby.’

A rustling wave of sound passed over the room, seemed to sweep over, beyond Canby; all eyes were upon him; he felt isolated, exposed, the very centre of the universe. He clutched nervously at his coat, looked at Moran with a white, strained face. There was something foreboding, terrifying, in the undertone of his voice — something he could n’t grasp.

The voice continued through the silent room; slowly it recounted the history of the Club, the notable men that had been members, the famous dinners that had been given. It became eloquent, appealing, subtly clothed with the past glories which it made present. The constriction about Canby’s heart relaxed, his fears seemed to drift away, to become absorbed in a burning glow of enthusiasm, of loyalty to the visions so marvelously evoked.

It was his Club that Moran meant — the Club of which he was Secretary! All fear had gone — he felt very proud and happy. He heard his name again, heard it carried through anecdote, incident, history, made a part of the very life of the Club — heard Moran speak of him as one who never slept in ceaseless endeavor for its welfare.

He lifted his face, felt the warm splash of tears upon his cheek. He wiped his eyes and smiled tremulously at Moran. Never in his life had he been quite so happy — he had not dreamed that anything like this could ever happen to him. For an instant he saw the face of Rose— felt the joy he would have in telling her. If she were only here, with him, at this very moment!

The voice stopped; he saw Moran look at him, saw him hesitate as if brought to an unexpected end. His hand went deliberately to his pocket. Then his voice sounded again, lowered, a little uncertain, as if reaching for the threads of some new thought.

‘Canby,’ he said, ‘we intended to give you a watch to-night. It is n’t here — we had to send for it — we could n’t find anything good enough for you in this city. When it comes, the Governor and I will give it to you ourselves.’

He sat down abruptly. There was a sudden silence. And then the room rocked about Canby in waves of tumultuous applause.