The man felt himself insulted, but Henry was smiling, and of course that strange word might be something technical. "Well, to tell the truth, we--"

"Come on, now. I know you're an altruist, but be a sport. You're losing money, and the children are moaning with hunger in their little trundle-beds, but when do I get the job done?"

"The second week in September."

"_This_ September? And the bill?"

"Shaved down so close there's hardly any--"

"Shave it every morning; it's being done. But what's your figure?"

"Seventy-six fifty."

There was nothing for Henry to do but to have a new date painted on the sign, and to draw on his reserve fund, but at bottom he was vastly perturbed. He had counted on a running start, and every week of delay was a vicious handicap. If he had remotely imagined how elastic a contractor's agreement could be, he would certainly have thought twice about ordering so many changes--he would have steered a middle course, and been satisfied with half the improvement--but as it was, he had put himself in a trap. Now that the work was partly done, it would have to be completed. There was no way out of it. And from day to day, as the arrears of labour heaped up, and cost was piled on cost, Henry began to lose a trifle of his fine buoyancy and optimism.

Also, it was amazing to discover that Anna was much less self-reliant than he had thought her. Almost every night she displayed some unsuspected trait of helplessness, so that he simply had to shelve his worries, and baby her out of her own. He adored her, and therefore he never questioned her ingenuousness; he didn't see that by monopolizing his thoughts, and turning them entirely upon herself, she prevented him from wasting his energy in futile brooding, even if he had inclined to it.

He planned to open in mid-September, but a strike among the carpenters added a few days to the time, and, by virtue of a compromise, a few dollars to the account. The building inspector wouldn't pa.s.s the wiring, and the electricians took a holiday before they condescended to return. When the last nail was driven, the last brushful of paint applied, the final item added to the long statement, the day was the last Friday in the month, and the total bill amounted to more than nine thousand dollars.

"Anna," said Henry, reflectively, "it's a lucky thing for us this world was all built before we were born. Know that? Because if they'd ever started it under _modern_ conditions, there wouldn't be anything to it yet but the Garden of Eden and Atlantic City and maybe Gopher Prairie.... Well, I wonder what's next?"

"There won't _be_ any next, dear. Nothing can happen now. And aren't you glad I've made us economize? Aren't you? Say your prayers!

Say--'bless Anna'!"

"Not Anna--_Polly_anna. Glad we economized! Why don't you say you're glad it took two months to do two weeks' work because that gave me so much more time to study the game, and find out how to run the theatre?

No, it goes back farther than that. I'm glad you caught me while I was so young."

"Henry!"

"What? Don't you remember how you pursued me, and vamped me, and took away my volition, so I was helpless as a babe--"

"Oh, _Henry_!"

"Sure you did. Funny you don't remember that. Or else--was it the other way around?"

"Well--"

"Well, anyhow," he said, in a slightly lower key. "I'm glad it happened.... And you stick to me, and you'll wear diamonds yet. Great hunks of grit, strung all over you. I'll make you look as vulgar as a real society woman. That's the kind of man I am. A good provider--that is, of course, _providing_."

And on Sat.u.r.day morning, the _Herald_ told them that a committee from the Reform League had waited on the Mayor for the third time, and delivered an ultimatum.

"Oh, bother!" said Anna. "There's been something in the paper every two or three days. It doesn't amount to a row of pins. Dad says so."

Henry inhaled deeply. "Did you see who's on that committee? Mix and Aunt Mirabelle, of course, and if they've got it in for anybody special, I'm it. Bob says Mix is a grand little hater; he's seen him in action, and he says to keep an eye on him: says Mix had lined up a buyer for the Orpheum, so naturally he's sore at me.... And then a flock of old men just under par--I'd say they average about ninety-seven and a half--but they're a pretty solid lot; too solid to be booted out of _any_ Mayor's office. And if they _should_ get the Mayor stirred up, why, we wouldn't have the chance of a celluloid rat in a furnace.... I wish the Judge were where I could get at him. He'd know what's going on."

"Couldn't you ask the Exhibitors a.s.sociation?"

"_They_ don't know. The Judge is on the inside. Do you know when he's coming back from his vacation?"

"Not for two or three weeks yet. But I've an intuition, dear--"

"Sure. So have I. A year from now we'll be eating our golden pheasants off our golden plates with our gold teeth. But in the meantime, you better keep your eye on the butcher's bill.... They tell me hash is a great nerve-food."

CHAPTER VIII

In years the Mayor was no chicken, but in politics he had hardly chipped his sh.e.l.l, so that he was still susceptible to delegations, and sets of resolutions, and references to his solemn oath of office.

Furthermore, he had been secretly awed by Mr. Mix's eloquence; for Mr.

Mix, as spokesman of the committee, had delivered a speech which was a brief history of both common and statutory law from the time of Solon and Draco up to the most recent meeting of the City Council. Then, in addition, the Mayor had been mightily impressed by the personnel of that committee--chiefly old men, to be sure, but men of immense dignity and considerable weight in local finance; and also, for a counterpoise, there was Miss Starkweather. He hadn't liked the way Miss Starkweather looked at him. She had looked at him with the same rigid intensity with which his wife looked at a fly in the dining-room.

As the door closed behind the last of the committee, the Mayor drew a prodigious breath, and walked over to the window, where for several minutes he remained in deep thought. He tried to remember Mr. Mix's peroration:

"Thousands of years ago, Mr. Mayor, when the race of man was still dressed in skins, and domiciled in caves, and settling its differences with clubs and brickbats, there was no inst.i.tution of law,--there was no written language. But as civilization advanced, men found the necessity of communicating their ideas; so that they devised a form of speech which would enable them to exchange these ideas--such as they were--about life, and law. And later on, it was plain that in order to perpetuate these ideas and pa.s.s them to posterity, it was necessary to write them down; and so there was developed a written language, and by this method civilized men through all the ages have written down the laws under which they are willing to live. It would be impractical for all of us to meet together to pa.s.s our laws, and therefore we elect representatives who make our laws for us. These laws are binding upon all of us until they are set aside by still other legislators, still acting for the whole people, who have chosen them as their legislative representatives. The duty of the executive branch of our government is to enforce those laws, whether made yesterday, or made fifty years ago, or five hundred years ago, and written down in our law-books....

This is our third conference with you, Mr. Mayor, in regard to one of those laws. I therefore have to inform you, in behalf of our committee and our League, and our whole city (whose representatives in City Council pa.s.sed that law for our common good) that you stand today at the parting of the ways. You must choose whether to uphold your sacred oath of office, or to disregard it. And within forty-eight hours you will have made that choice, and we shall know where our duty lies....

I thank you for your patience."

The Mayor was one of those who, without the first atom of sustaining evidence, had long been vaguely suspicious that Mr. Mix wasn't always as pious as he appeared in church. He had noted, too, that although Mr. Mix's name was frequently listed on committees, yet it never bobbed up in connection with an obscure cause, however worthy, or among the names of unimportant citizens. He was convinced that Mr. Mix had an ulterior motive--political, social, financial--but the worst of it was that Mr. Mix had come with support which couldn't be sidetracked.

The Mayor shook himself, and went over to his telephone; a few minutes later the Chief of Police strolled in, and grinned at the disordered semi-circle of chairs. "Been holdin' a prayer-meetin', Mr. Rowland?"

The Mayor was biting his moustache. "Sit down, Chief. I want some advice.... Lord, I wish Barklay wasn't off on his vacation.... Why, I've just had a threat from this Reform League."

"Threat? What kind of a threat?"

The Mayor didn't reply immediately; he continued to chew his moustache. "You know that fool Sunday law--was pa.s.sed 'way back in the year One?"

"Sure. 147. Dead letter."

"They say it's got to be enforced."

The Chief laughed boisterously. "That's a big order."

"I know it is. The ma.s.s of the people don't want it--never did. But in these days there isn't a Councillor _I_ know'd put a motion to repeal it, or amend it. Probition's scared 'em. They don't know _what_ the people want, so they're laying mighty low.... Same time, this League's getting pretty strong. Mix, and John Starkweather's sister, and ex-Senator Kaplan, Richards of the First National, Dr. Smillie of the Church crowd, old man Fredericks of National Metal--know what they handed me today?"

"Let her come."

The Mayor snorted with disgust. "Hinted if I didn't begin enforcement day after tomorrow they'd appeal to the Governor.... Lord, I wish Barklay was here."

The Chief grinned again. "I know what Barklay'd say."

"What?"

"Give 'em rope."

"We-ll ... that's easy enough to _say_."