The Lash
"Haskins quizzically looked him over" The Lash
OLIN L. LYMAN
Author of "The Trail of the Grand Seigneur"
BOSTON
RICHARD G. BADGER THE GORHAM PRESS
1909
Copyright 1909 by RICHARD G. BADGER All Rights Reserved_
Printed at The Gorham Press, Boston, U. S. A. TO C. E. A
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I A Star Chamber Session 9
II An Arrival 18
III Micky 29
IV Fists and the Man 36
V The Ironworkers' Ball--and Maisie 47
VI The Web 61
VII Loneliness 67
VIII An Evening Call 77
IX Not on the Programme 87
X The Little Red Devil 99
XI In the Morning 106
XII Why She Cried 113
XIII A Wager 122
XIV A Discredited Henchman 133
XV Useful Information 145
XVI His Better Side 155
XVII The Coup in Sight 165
XVIII A Counter Move 178
XIX Suspense 187
XX Out of the Past 195
XXI The Lash 204
XXII The Story 215
XXIII Wanderlust 224
XXIV The Long Road 234 [9]THE LASH
CHAPTER I
1
A STAR CHAMBER SESSION
THE speaker paused for a moment to pass his handkerchief over his fevered brow. Up from the ugly, leering, little eyes swept the swabbing linen, traversing the smooth top of the round head and disappearing mysteriously at the rear. The reason for this was obvi-ous. The teeth of time take kindly to the hirsute and the speaker was very bald. Only a narrow fringe of reddish hair divided the rear depression of his fevered brow from the nape of his fat red neck.
A plump and hairy fist smote the table and the glasses jingled. "Don't fool yourselves, you young fellows," advised the bald gentleman, in a curious gusty voice. "I've been all through it, clean to the retired list," with a wicked wink, "and I know, that's all. You've got to work harder this year than you did the first; you've got to a point where there ain't no layin' down for you if you want to keep on fodderin'. 'Cause why? 'Cause they're on, or think they are, and they're gettin' uneasy. You think everything's lovely, do you? Well, take a little advice from the old man that's now on the sideline, and aim to get busy from now on."
[10]He again swabbed his illimitable brow, peering cunningly at them with wicked little eyes that gleamed unpleasantly on either side of a bulbous, crimsoned nose, while he chewed complacently at a black cigar. In common with the rest of the small company he was in his shirt-sleeves, for it was very hot. A mere ghost of a breeze stole in through the window screen, against which foiled moths, attracted by the light within, bumped in vain. A white-aproned waiter, summoned by an electric bell, entered, removed the empty glasses and received a fresh order. With his departure the bald gentleman was again heard from.
"Well," he snorted aggressively, "what's eatin' you? Don't you believe me?"
"Why," drawled a lank, middle-aged gentleman with a generally unsophisticated look that increased the efficiency of his talents for the peculiar use to which he devoted them; "I suppose it's safe to be on the safe side, but there's no use in borrowin' trouble any more than you have to. Everything looks smooth to me."
"Pals," remarked the bald gentleman impressively, "remember this. The only way to stave off the foreclosure is to keep borrowin', and it's the smoothest whisky that gives you the rockiest head the next morning. 'Cause why? 'Cause you get enthused and hit it up too hard. Now that's where our danger flag's out. We've found this an easy town, we've worked it for all it's worth, puttin' it in plain English; the reformers ain't never woke up and you're takin' the attitude that they never will. Boys, it's a mistake. They do, sometimes. You don't want to plan on no sleepy campaign, if you'll[11] take it from a sideliner that's 'retired' but wishes you well."
"That's all very well, Alderman." said a plump, moon-faced fellow across the table, "but we've had these scares before and they've been for nothing. Two years ago Fusion thought it had us beat and we was afraid it was going to turn the trick. Remember the vote? Why, we got the laugh from our own men. We needn't have hustled ourselves. It was a dead open-and-shut."
"It's because the town don't believe half it hears," interpolated the lank gentleman. "I'll say this, that the old man--drink to him, boys!--is the best organizer in this country today, and he leaves the blindest trail. They can't bring anything home, not while we're in control."
"That's what I'm tellin' you," remarked the bald one grimly. "You've got to hang on to the control. Let it slip away from you while you're nappin' and how long would it be before the town was next? What would the hide of any man in this room be worth?" His voice had instinctively lowered; his head was thrust forward, his little eyes were piercing. "I tell you it always pays to keep busy all the time."
There was a moment's silence. The half dozen companions of the speaker surveyed him minutely but with visible respect. After all, he could give any and all of them pointers in the gentle art of grafting and they knew it. Moreover, his words had at last struck home, had awakened them from a false sense of security. Alderman Goldberg had been through the mill, and had fed at the public crib at intervals no better judged than times when he elected to remain in discreet retirement, in his cyclone cellar, until ominous signs on the municipal weather[12] horizon had disappeared. So, because they knew that he spoke by the card, his companions now paid him the tribute of uneasy silence.
The lanky individual, Dick Peterson by name, finally resumed the conversation. "Well," said he, "this is only a preliminary to the
main event anyway. Wonder what's keepin' the old man? Here we've been waitin' an hour. We'll see what he says. I haven't mentioned
'campaign' to him myself."
"I know what he'll say," retorted Goldberg. "Just what I've been tellin' you, to get busy. That's why he called you here tonight, to dig in the spurs a little. The old man's no fool. Hark! I guess he's comin' now."
2
There was a soft tread outside, a door opened and a man entered the room. Nodding slightly in response to their greeting, he seated himself in a chair, at the head of the table, which had evidently been reserved for him. Peterson pushed some cigars toward him,
at the same time thrusting an interrogative finger toward the electric bell. The newcomer shook his head, and selecting one of the
cigars, leaned back in his chair as he leisurely lighted it.
John Shaughnessy was as unlike the cartooned type of political boss as could be imagined. He looked decidedly ordinary, and might have been taken for anything from a dejected clerk of middle age to an unostentatious gambler. His garb was quiet; there was an utter absence of vociferous jewelry. In person he was lank and slightly over middle height. The face was singularly impassive; that of a gambler to whom nothing apparently mattered. A hawk nose and small black moustache had Shaughnessy, also a pair of heavy-lidded eyes.
[13]These eyes, when they glanced casually at you, held a lustreless, ennuied expression that impressed you, did you trouble to entertain any impression at all, with a definite idea of somnolence in Shaughnessy. A discouraged gambler, you might think casually, had you not the honor of his acquaintance. But did you happen to kindle Shaughnessy's interest in any way, lo! a startling change. The heavy lids contracted ever so little about the black eyes, which shot forth gleams that revealed Shaughnessy in a new and sinister light. They bared a sleepless vigilance, an unpleasant concentration,