Part 3

From Worden's, the mayor walked across to the jail and sought out Manson. The latter was in his small office which seemed crowded with its single occupant's bulk, and adjoined the high forbidding walls of the jail itself. In St. Marys the chief constable was a man of place, and the jail an edifice that at times took on a singular interest, and if such a capacious establishment as it actually was might seem superfluous in Arcadia it must be remembered that in seasons of the year the lumberjacks rolled in from the northern parts with six months' wages and a great thirst that demanded to be quenched, and a perfectly natural and well meaning desire to offer combat at sight, which they generally did. Then, too, there were fugitives from justice who slipped across the river by night in canoes, and miners from the silver country far to the west, and sometimes crime was also the product of isolation.

Manson, a tall man, broad, dark, and heavy voiced, seemed by nature designed to meet just such contingencies. Outwardly he was the epitome of authority and inwardly he had a mind as stiff as his back. In his own domain he was as Jove on Olympus, and when he moved abroad he was a perambulating reminder of the strong arm of the law. The jail was conveniently arranged to hold the court room on an upper story, so that Manson could pop a prisoner up out of his cell to be tried and sentenced, and pop him back forthwith, and all the time the unfortunate was, so to speak, one of the family and continually under the paternal eye.

Had a listener been outside the door, he would have gleaned that the mayor's visit was, in this case, not as amicable as that just made to Worden. He talked long and arduously, but every now and then Manson's deep bass boomed out heavy with argument, and his massive fist crashed ponderously on the table. Presently Filmer drew a long breath and, stepping out on the trim gravel path, glanced up quizzically at the chief constable who looked as though enthroned on his own doorstep.

"Mr. Mayor," came the deep voice, "I don't take any stock in your scheme. It's no good and there's a nigger in the fence somewhere. I was right before, and I am right this time."

Filmer laughed softly. "Well, John, you're a hell of a good jailer, we all admit that, but I don't put you down as any permanent prophet. However, you will come, won't you?"

Manson nodded, a nod which said that though he would come it could not affect his fixed opinion, whereupon the mayor laughed again, and set off to finish his afternoon pilgrimage, and it is but fair to follow him a little further since he was a shrewd man, active and courageous, and though he did not know it, the result of the various visits he made that day was to be imprinted indelibly on the history of St. Marys.

Banishing Manson from a mind which was already busy with his next move, he retraced his steps as far as the cottage of Dibbott, the Indian agent, who at this hour of the day, might have been found moving mountainously in his long garden and pottering amongst his perennials, smoking an enormous pipe which he regretfully laid aside only in order that he might eat.

Now, since the citizens of St. Marys were, without their knowledge, about to enter upon a period of great importance, glance at Dibbott, not the least of them, as his small, blue eyes caught the approaching figure of the mayor. Six feet when he straightened, his shoulders were bent, but still broad and strong. His face was fiery, not only from his full blooded habit but also from long canoe voyages. He was a placid man--placid yet at times suddenly choleric, and he regarded St. Marys and his own particular plot of land with an undying and tranquil affection. Dibbott's position was, in a sense, enviable, for he stood as administrator between the government and the local Indian tribes, in whose eyes he was the representative of authority.

Year after year he made official visits of visible grandeur to the settlements of his wards, journeying in a great canoe in the middle of which he rested enthroned, the brim of his hat pulled far down over a scarlet, sunburnt nose, a steady wisp of smoke from his big pipe floating back into the face of the laboring Indian behind him. It may be that it was in the silence and mysterious appeal of these journeys that Dibbott got the dignity which sat so naturally on his great, gray head.

The mayor liked the old man, and Dibbott knew it, so they talked amicably while Dibbott, turning every now and then in surprise, pushed out his full red lips as though rising to a fly, and darted quick, little glances as Filmer unfolded his story beside a late phlox. And when the mayor concluded, Dibbott did not move but began to rumble in a deep, throaty, ruminative voice something that sounded like one hundred and thirty thousand dollars at six per cent.

On his way back to the office, Filmer saw Bowers' lean figure across the street. He crooked a masterful finger. "Come here!"

The lawyer came over very deliberately and the two went on together.

"There is a man up at the rapids who says he's ready at any time to take over the town canal debentures."

Bowers looked up startled. "Will you please repeat that very slowly."

"It's true," chuckled Filmer, "and I am calling a town meeting for to-night. I haven't time to give you the details now, but be on hand at eight o'clock. He's made a perfectly straight proposal and I don't see how we can lose on it. I never met a man just like him."

"Did he come in on the train this afternoon?"

The mayor nodded. "Yes--said he was going on to Minneapolis, but decided to stop over and make this offer."

"Then I saw him at the station," answered Bowers thoughtfully. "I thought he was a buyer. Do you reckon we can rope him in?"

Filmer drew a long breath. "Looks to me as if he would rope himself in the way he is going. He won't need any help from us."

"What did you make of him personally?"

"I didn't get very far," said Filmer deliberately, "except that he struck me as the sort of man who gets things done. Look here, I've seen Dibbott and Worden and Manson. Will you go and see the Bishop and ask him to come to-night?"

"The Bishop went away this morning."

"Damn!" said the mayor explosively. "I wanted to get his opinion about Clark, that's his name, Robert Fisher Clark. Well, so long."

He went on to his store where he was overtaken by Clark who had tramped back from the rapids. The visitor was muddy and no longer immaculate and there was a trace of fatigue on his face, but he looked as cheerful and determined as ever. At that moment the village crier passed up the street swinging a raucous bell and announcing in stentorian tones that a meeting would be held in the town hall that night at eight o'clock to consider matters of prime importance to the citizens at large. The crier tramped on, and Filmer glanced up inquiringly.

"Won't you change your mind and come to the house with me? It is a safe bet you'll be more comfortable."

Clark shook his head. "Thanks, but I've got to speak in two hours and there's a good deal to think of."

Meantime rumors of many things had begun to spread through St. Marys. The magistrate, as soon as the mayor left him, naturally told Mrs. Worden all about it and Bowers would not have dreamt of keeping such a thing from his wife, so had stuck a card on his office door saying he would be back in ten minutes and went home for the afternoon, after which Mrs. Worden and Mrs. Bowers strolled over to see Mrs. Dibbott and were in close conversation amongst the perennials, appealing now and then to Dibbott in order that there might be no mistake about it. Down in Blood's barber shop, Jim Blood had, as might be expected, the most detailed information, for Clark had gone in there on his way to the hotel and, sitting down, remarked "shave please" and at the end, without another word, gave Jim fifty cents and walked out. And if you add to all this the sound of the crier's bell mellowing softly up the long street, it will be understood that the excitement was considerably intensified. Even Filmer, as he ate supper, did not say much, but kept his gaze on the lid of the teapot as though it were a Pandora's box in which bubbled marvelous things that might be vomited any moment. But at heart Filmer was not anxious. It was not his habit. Of all men he knew best the folk of St. Marys, so he doubted not at all, and as a matter of fact St. Marys had for mayor a much bigger and wiser man than it ever suspected.

There may be communities now such as St. Marys was twenty-five years ago, but one goes far to find them. Electricity has altered their distinctive character. The traffic of half a continent glided majestically past these wooded shores, with the deep blast of whistles as the great vessels edged gingerly into the Government lock across the river to be lifted to Superior, and another farewell blast as they pushed slowly out, and lastly a trail of vanishing black smoke as they dwindled westward to the inland sea. For seven months this procession passed the town but never halted, till the people of St. Marys felt like the farmer who, in mid field, waves a friendly hand to a speeding train.