"You need not reply by letter. To-morrow's issue answers for you. Until I
have received a copy, I withhold my judgment.
"JOHN HARKLESS."
The morrow's issue--that fateful print on which depended John Harkless's
opinion of H. Fisbee's integrity--contained an editorial addressed to the
delegates of the convention, warning them to act for the vital interest of
the community, and declaring that the opportunity to be given them in the
present convention was a rare one, a singular piece of good fortune
indeed; they were to have the chance to vote for a man who had won the
love and respect of every person in the district--one who had suffered for
his championship of righteousness--one whom even his few political enemies
confessed they held in personal affection and esteem--one who had been the
inspiration of a new era--one whose life had been helpfulness, whose hand
had reached out to every struggler and unfortunate--a man who had met and
faced danger for the sake of others--one who lived under a threat for
years, and who had been almost overborne in the fulfilment of that threat,
but who would live to see the sun shine on his triumph, the tribute the
convention would bring him as a gift from a community that loved him. His
name needed not to be told; it was on every lip that morning, and in every
heart.
Tom was eagerly watching his companion as he read. Harkless fell back on
the pillows with a drawn face, and for a moment he laid his thin hand over
his eyes in a gesture of intense pain.
"What is it?" Meredith said quickly.
"Give me the pad, please."
"What is it, boy?"
The other's teeth snapped together.
"What is it?" he cried. "What is it? It's treachery, and the worst I ever
knew. Not a word of the accusation I demanded--lying praises instead!
Read that editorial--there, there!" He struck the page with the back of
his hand, and threw the paper to Meredith. "Read that miserable lie! 'One
who has won the love and respect of every person in the district!'--'One
who has suffered for his championship of righteousness!' Righteousness!
Save the mark!"
"What does it mean?"
"Mean! It means McCune--Rod McCune, 'who has lived under a threat for
years'--my threat! I swore I would print him out of Indiana if he ever
raised his head again, and he knew I could. 'Almost overborne in the
fulfilment of that threat!' Almost! It's a black scheme, and I see it
now. This man came to Plattville and went on the 'Herald' for nothing in
the world but this. It's McCune's hand all along. He daren't name him even
now, the coward! The trick lies between McCune and young Fisbee--the old
man is innocent. Give me the pad. Not almost overborne. There are three
good days to work in, and, by the gods of Perdition, if Rod McCune sees
Congress it will be in his next incarnation!"