McNally pursed his lips, then drew out a wallet, and counted out three thousand dollars in large bills, which he laid in the centre of the table.

"There's four playing," suggested Blaney.

McNally scowled.

"Don't be a hog, Blaney." He took up his hand, then laid it down and rose, adding,--

"Can't do anything with that hand."

The three Committeemen dropped their cards and each pocketed a third of the money. Mr. McNally fished a pad from his grip and wrote the contract binding himself to pay for the stock after the election on condition that it should be voted at his dictation. He signed it, and tossed it across the table.

"All right, Mr. McNally," said Blaney, holding out his hand. "I guess we can see you through. Good night."

"Good night, Blaney; good night, boys." McNally shook hands cordially with each. "We'll have a good road here yet."

When their footfalls died away in the hall, Mr. McNally turned to the table, gathered the cards, and replaced them in his bag. The room was close with cigar smoke, and he threw open the windows. With the sensation of removing something offensive, he washed his hands. He stood for a few moments looking out the window at the quiet city, then he sauntered downstairs and into the deserted parlor, seating himself at the piano. His plump hands wandered over the keys with surprisingly delicate touch. For a short time he improvised. Then as the night quiet stole into his thoughts, he drifted into Rubinstein's Melody in F, playing it dreamily.

CHAPTER IV

JIM WEEKS CLOSES IN

It was midnight when Jim Weeks reached Tillman City. The next morning at breakfast he recognized Mr. McNally, and though he nodded pleasantly, his thoughts were not the most amicable. He knew that McNally meant mischief, and he also knew that McNally's mischief could be accomplished only through one man, Michael Blaney. Heretofore Blaney had not troubled Jim.

Jim's power and his hold on Tillman City affairs had combined to inspire the lesser dictator with awe, and in order to obtain concessions it had been necessary only to ask for them. Jim never dealt direct with Blaney.

The councilman to whom he intrusted his measures was Bridge, leader of the pro-pavers. Jim had won him by generosity in transportation of paving supplies. But when Jim left the hotel that morning he wasted no time on minority leaders. Bridge was useful to prepare and introduce ordinances, but was not of the caliber for big deals, so Jim ordered a carriage and drove direct to Blaney's house. Although the hour was early, the politician was not at home. His wife, a frail little woman, came to the door and extended a flexible speaking trumpet that hung about her shoulders.

"No," she said in reply to Jim's question, "he's down on the artesian road watching a job. He won't be back till noon."

The road in question leads from the city to the artesian well a few miles away. Jim turned his horses and went back through the town and out toward the country. He found Blaney just inside the city limits, sitting on a curb and overseeing two bosses and a gang of laborers, who were tearing up the macadam with the destructive enthusiasm of the hired sewer digger.

"How are you, Blaney?" called Jim, pulling up.

Blaney nodded sourly. He was a man of bullying rather than of tactful propensities and he could not conceal his distaste for an interview with Jim Weeks at this particular moment. To tell the truth, he had begun to fear the results of the agreement with McNally which rested in his coat pocket. Weeks was a hard man to fight, and wasted no words on disloyalty.

However, Blaney knew that dissimulation would profit him nothing, for to keep the changed vote a secret would be impossible; so he squared himself for a row. Jim tied his horses to a sapling and sat beside him, remarking,--

"I want to have a talk with you."

"Haven't got much time," replied Blaney, making a show of looking at his watch.

Jim smiled meaningly.

"You've got all the time I need. I want to know what you're up to with our stock."

Blaney gazed at the laborers.

"Here!" he called to a lazy Irishman, "get back there where you belong!"

"Come now, Blaney, talk business."

"What do you want to know about that stock?"

"How are you going to vote it?"

"I guess I can vote it."

"Are you going to stick to me?"

"I don't know whether I am or not. I'll do what the Council directs."

Jim gave him a contemptuous glance.

"Don't be a fool, Blaney."

"See here," said Blaney, rising; "what are _you_ trying to do?"

Jim rose too.

"You've answered my question," he replied. "You think you can throw me out."

"I ain't throwing anybody out," muttered Blaney. He walked away and stood looking at the trench in the street which the men had sunk shoulder deep.

Jim followed.

"I'm not through yet, Blaney."

"I haven't got time to talk with you," bl.u.s.tered the contractor. Jim stood a moment looking him over. Blaney's eyes were fixed on the Irishman.

"How much did he give you?" asked Jim, quietly.

Blaney whirled around.

"Look out," he said. "I don't know what you're talking about, but a man can't say that to me." His fists were clenched. Jim spoke without emotion.

"Drop it," he said. "I'm not here for my health. I knew all that some hours ago. If I couldn't work it any better than you've done, I'd quit.

Now what I want you to do, Blaney--"

"See here, you've said enough!" Blaney was excited. "You can't come around here and bulldoze me. We've bought that stock and we'll vote it as we like, d.a.m.n it; and you can go to h.e.l.l!"

Jim looked at him thoughtfully; then he went to his buggy and drove back to the hotel. He saw that Blaney was frightened, but he evidently was too thoroughly bought up to be easily shaken. With what some men called his "gameness" Jim dropped Blaney from his mind for the moment, and began to plan for a desperate counter move. Before he reached the hotel the move was decided upon, and Jim was placid.

The next man to see was Bridge. Jim paused at the hotel long enough to send a message to the station agent to have a special ready in fifteen minutes; then he went to the office of his lieutenant.

Bridge was an architect with a yearning for politics. For several years he had tried to keep both irons in the fire, and as a result was not over-successful in either. But he was a shrewd, silent man, and could be trusted. Jim found him designing a stable.

"Sit down, Mr. Weeks. What brings you to Tillman?"

"Bad business," responded Jim, shortly. "Blaney's sold out to the C. & S.C."