The Indianapolis times. [volume], November 24, 1922, Home Edition, Page 8, Image 8

About The Indianapolis times. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1922-1965

Image provided by: Indiana State Library

                
8
A Hoosier Chronicle
By MEREDITH NICHOLSON
First Novel in the Times Series of Fiction Stories by Indiana
Writers
(Copyright, 1912. by Meredith Nicholson.)
SYNOPSIS
SYLVIA GARRISON, young granddaughter
of
PROFESSOR KELTON, Is making her home
with
MRS. JACKSON OWEN, tn Indianapolis, pre
liminary to going to college.
An event of which Sylvia is not to
know Is the mysterious visit of a strange
young man who delivers an unsigned letter
to her grandfather, stating an offer which
he declines to accept.
Sylvia meets
MARIAN BASSETT. Mrs. Owen s cultured
rrandniece and her mother.
MRS. MORTON BASSETT, prominent club
woman of Fraserville.
DAN HARWOOD, clerk in the law offices of
WRIGHT & FITCH, who does newspaper
work for the Courier is sent to see
MR. PETTIT, their Fraserville correspondent,
also editor of the Fraser County Demo
crat, to gather facts for a sketch of the
HON. MORTON BASSETT, politician and
father of Marian Bassett.
“Owns everything,” said Harwood,
with an attempt at facetiousness, “ex
cept the brewery.”
Mr. Pettit’s eyes opened wide, and
then closed; again he was mirth
shaken; it seemed that the Idea of
Unking Morton Bassett’s name with
the manufacture of malt liquor was
the most stupendous joke possible.
The editor’s face did not change ex
pression; the internal disturbances
were not more violent this time, but
they continued longer: when the
strange spasm had passed he dug a
fat fist into a tearful right eye and
was calm.
“Oh, my God,” he blurted huskily.
“Breweries? Let us say that he nei
ther makes nor consumes malt, vinous
nor spirituous liquor, within the mean
inf of the statutes in such cases
made and provided. He and Ed
Thatcher make a strong team. Ed
started out as a brewer but there’s
nothing wrong about that, I reckon.
Over in England they make lords and
dukes of brewers.”
"A man of rectitude—enshrined in
the hearts of his fellow-citizens —
popular and all that?” suggested Har
wood.
“Yes. Mort rather retains his heat,
I guess. Some say he’s cold as ice.
His ice is the kind that freezes to
what he likes. Mort’s a gentleman if
we have one in Fraser County. If
veu think you're chasin’ one of these
blue jeans politicians you read about
in comic papers you're hitting the
wrong trail, son. Good Lord. boy. if
you can 6ay these other fellows in
Indiana politics have brains, you got
to say that Mort Bassett has intellect.
Which is different, son; a dem sight
different.”
“I shall be glad to use the word in
my sketch of Mr. Bassett.” remarked
Dan dryly. “It will lend variety to
the series.”
Harwood thanked the editor for his
courtesy and walked to the floor.
Strange creakings from the editorial
chair caused him to turn. The Hon
orable Isaac Pettit was in the throes
cf another convulsion. The attack
seemed more severe than its prede- j
cessors. Dan waited for him to in-.
voke deity with the asthmatic wheezi
ness to which mirth reduced his vocal
apparatus.
“It’s nothin’, son; it’s nothin’. It’s
my temperament; I can’t help it. Did
you say you were from the Courier?
Well, you better give Mort a good
send-off. ' He appreciates a good Job;
he's a sort o’ literary cuss himself.”
Harwood's instructions were in ev
ery' case to take the subjects of his
sketches at their own valuation and
to set them forth sympathetically.
The ambitions of most of the gentle
men he had interviewed had been ob
vious—obvious and futile. Nearly ev
ery man who reached the Legislature
feit a higher call to Congress or the
Governor’s chair. Harwood had al
ready described in the Courier the at
tainments of several statesmen who
were willing to sacrifice their private
interests for the high seat at the State
uapitol. The pettiness and sordidness
of most of the politicians he met
struck him humorously, but the tone
of his articles was uniformly lauda-
tors.
When the iron gate clicked behind
him at the Bassett residence, his note
book was still barren of such anec
dotes of his subject as he had usually
gathered in like cases in an afternoon
spent at the courthouse. Stories of
generosity, of the kindly care of
widows and orphans, gifts to indigent
pastors, boys helped through college,
and similar benefactions had proved
altogether elusive. Either Harwood
had sought in the wrong places or
Morton Bassett was of tougher fiber
than the other gentlemen on whom his
pencil had conferred immortality.
Harwood stated his errand, and i
Bassett merely nodded, offering none
of those protestations of surprise and ;
humility, those pleas of unworthi- j
ness that his predecessors on Dan’s
list had usually insisted upon. Dan
made mental note at once of the fig I
ure before him. Bassett’s jaw was
square and firm—power was mani
fest there, unmistakably, and his j
bristling mustache suggested com
bativeness. His dark eyes met Har
wood's gaze steadily hardness might
lie there, though their gaze was
friendly enough. His voice was deep
and its tone was pleasant. He opened
a drawer and produced a box of
aigars.
"Won't you smoke? I don’t smoke
myself, but you mustn’t mind that.”
And Harwood accepted a cigar, which
he found excellent. A moment later
a maid placed on the table beside the
checkerboard a tray, with a decanter
and glasses, and a pitcher of water.
“That's for us.” remarked Bassett,
nodding toward the glasses. “Help !
yourself.”
“The cigar is all I need: thank you.”
The reporter was prepared to ask
questions, following a routine he had
employed with other subjects, but
Bassett be an to talk on his own
initiative —of the town, the county,
the district. He expressed himself
well. In terse words and phrases.
Bassett was not the vulgar, inti
mate good-fellow who slapped every
man on the back —the teller of good
stories over a glass of whisky and u
cigar. He was, as Pettit had said,
anew type, not of the familiar cliche.
The decanter was a “property’'
placed in the scene at the dictates of
hospitality: the checkerboard can
celed any suggestion of conviviality
that might have been conveyed by the
decanter of whisky.
Bassett’s right hand lay on the table
and Dan found himself watching it.
It was broad, but not heavy; the
fingers that opened and shut quietly
•’i a small paperweight were supple.
It was a hand that would deal few
blows, but hard ones. Harwood was
aware, at a moment when he began
to be bored by the bald facts of local
history, that Bassett had abruptly
switched the subject.
“Parties are necessary to demo
cratic government. I don’t believe
merely in my own party; I want the
opposition to be strong enough to
make a fight. The people are better
satisfied if there's a contest for the
offices. I’m not sorry when we lost
occasionally; defeat disciplines and
strengthen a party. I have made a
point in our little local affairs of not
fighting independents when they
break with us for any reason. Be
lieving as I do that parties are esen
tial, and that schismatic movements
are futile, I make a point of not at
tacking them. Their failures strengthen
the party—and incidentally kill the
men who have kicked out of the
traces. You never have to bother with
them a second time.”
“But they help clear the air—they
serve a purpose?” suggested Harwood.
He had acquired a taste for the Na
tion and the New York Evening Post
at college, and Bassett's frank state
ment of his political opinions struck
Dan as mediaeval.
“You are quite right, Mr. Harwood.
They serve an excellent purpose. They
provide an outlet; they serve as a
safety valve. Now and then they will
win a fight, and that’s a good thing
too, for they will prove, on experi
ment, that they are just as human
and weak in practical application of
their ideas as the rest of us. I’d even
go as far as to say that in certain
circumstances I'd let them win. They
help drive home my idea that the old
parties, like old. established business
houses, have got to maintain a stand
aid or they will lose the business to
which they are rightfully entitled.
When you see your customers passing
your front door to try anew shop
farther up the street, you want to sit
down and consider what’s the matter,
and devise means of regaining your
lost ground. It doesn’t pay merely
to ridicule the new man or cry that
his goods are inferior. Youis have
got to be superior—or”—and the gray
eyes twinkled for the first time —
“they must be dressed up to look bet
ter in your show window.”
Bassett rose and walked the length
of the room, with his hand3 thrust
into his trousers pockets, and he
poured himself a glass of water from
the pitcher and drank it slowly, with
an air of preoccupation.
“I’ve been a collector of Ameri
cana,” Bassett remarked, throwing
open several cases. “I’ve gom in for
colonial history, particularly, and
some of these things are pretty rare.”
The shelves rose to the ceiling and
Bassett produced a ladder that he
jtiight hand down a few of the more
interesting volumes for Dan’s closer
inspection.
“Here's Wainwright’s ’Brief De
scription of the Ohio River, With j
Some Account of the Savages Living
Thereon’ —published in London in
1732, and there are only three copies
in existence. This is Atterbury’s
‘Chronicle of the Chesapeake Settle- j
ments’ —the beet thing I have. The
author was an English sailor who •
joined the colonists in the Revolution j
end published a little memoir of his
adventures in America. The only other
copy of that known to exist Is In the
British Museum. I fished mine out
of a pile of Junk in Baltimore about
ten years ago. When I get old and
have time on my hands I'm going to
reprint some of these —wide margins,
and footnotes, and that sort of thing.
But there’s fun enough now in just
having them and knowing the other
fellow hasn’t!”
He flung open a panel of the wains
coting at a point still free of shelves
and disclosed a door of a small Iron
safe which he opened with a key.
“This isn’t the family silver, but a
few little things that are more val
uable. These are first editions of
American authors. Here’s Lowell's
’Fable for Critics,’ first edition; and
this is Emerson’s ‘Nature,’ 1836—a
first. These are bound by Orpcutt: had
them done myself. They feel good to
the hand, don't they!”
Harwood’s pleasure in the beautiful
specimens of the binder’s art was un
feigned and to his questioning Bas
sett dilated upon the craftsmanship.
“The red morocco of the Emerson
takes the gold tooling beautifully, and
the oak-leaf border design couldn’t be
liner. I believe this olive-green shade
Is the best of all. This Whittier —a first
edition of Tn War Time’ —is by Du
rand. a French artist, and one of the
best specimens of his work.”
“Are you a reader of poetry?” asked
Dan, as Bassett carefully collected the
books and returned them to the safe.
“No. That Is something we leave
behind us with our youth,” he said;
and looking down at the bent head
and sturdy shoulders, and watching
the strong fingers turning the key,
Dan wondered what the man’s youth
had been and what elements were
mixed in him that soft textures of
leather and delicate tracings of gold
on brown and scarlet and olive could
so delight him.
Bassett rested his hand on Dan’s
shoulder for a moment as the
younger man bent over one of the
prized volumes, and Dan was not in
sensible to the friendliness of the act.
Bassett imposed no restrictions
upon Harwood’s pencil, and this, too,
was a novel experience. His predeces
sors on the list of leaders in Hoosier
politics had not been backward about
making suggestions, but Basset did
not refer to Harwood's errand at all.
When Dan asked for photographs of
Mrs. Bassett and the children with
which to embellish his article, Bassett
declined to give them with a firm
ness that ended the matter; but he
promised to provide photographs of
the house and grounds and of the
Waupegan cottage and send them to
Harwood In z. day or two.
Harwood gave to his sketch of Mor
ton Bassett a care which he had not
bestowed upon any of his previous
contributions to the “Courier’s” ser
ies of Hoosier statesmen. The man
aging editor complained of its so
briety and lack of anecdote.
“It's good, Harwood, but it’s too
damned solemn. Can’t you shoot a
little ginger int oit?”
“I’ve tried to paint the real Bassett.
He isn't one of these raw hayseeds
who hands you chestnuts out of pa-
DOINGS OF THE DUFFS—
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/ CAN Too BEAT THESE WOMEN ? NO \ f THREW IT WHEN SHE BEAT IT OUT • i LOOK.WILBUR WHAI 1 > —^. /; uicDp Vdt) A
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} even AN ORANGE - SOME LARD AND LETTUCE ( WHAT’S THE BIG IDEA IN COMING HOME AT ! WITH HOT DUMPLINGS* WHERE YOU [ , t CAME IN, VNILBOfi?/ , , '
V (SUPPOSE I CAN THRIVE ON THAT* / / SEVEN O'CLOCK? WHAT DO YOO THINK THIS j | WA s Ov£|? TO A VJERE ’ /ft V V • WAS JUST
p . - . v , place is. a case ? .meals at all hours? I A no she fi*ed this r\ ' yrilH —-"7 SINGING a little
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LONGr ONE!I\
The old crossing watchman
is all ret up over people
USINGr RIS SHANTY FOP A SEAT
ll WHILE WAITING FORTAOSE LONG
freights To PASS BN. **
THEM DAYS IS GONE FOREVER—
- ■ ■■■■' —— .1 -m ■■■ ■- 111 " —— '
- THIS A TnOSPH&ie OF THAT TODDLE PAMC € ? THEM PA YS I S
MA.RV6LOUS 1 HOW DIFFERENT . U\ODESTV RECALLS A 6Y60/06 LOU)-\)£CK ? S-X'-XOONC FOMVCR!
PW2IM6 UMp WSrlKf J .
I '-.l'-JI WHO, WAS HUM
upside Down yesterday, would have
„ AU ._ y \ SI BEEN STRAIGHTENED OUT TODAY IF
THE LADDER HADNT SUPPED.
tent medicine almanacs. I’ve tried to
make a document that would tell the
truth and at the same time plea.se
him.”
“Why?” snapped the editor, pull
ing the green shade aw r ay from his
eyes and glaring at the reporter.
“Because^Jie’s the sort of man you
feel you’d like to please! H 's the
OUT OUK WAY—By WILLIAMS
THE OLD HOME TOWN—By STANLEY
only one of these fellows I’ve tackled
who didn’t tell me a lot of highfalu
tin rot they wanted put into the ar
ticle. Bassett didn’t seem to care
about it one way or another. I re
wrote most of that stuff half a dozen
times to be sure to get the punk
out of it, because I knew he hated
punk.”
THE INDIANAPOLIS TIMES
Take This On Your Tambourine
“You did, did you! Well, McNaugh
ton of Tippecanoe County is the next
standard-bearer you’re to tackle, and
you needn't be afraid to pin ribbons
on him. You college fellows are all
alike. TYy to remember, Harwood,
hat this paper ain’t the ‘North Amer
ican Review;’ it’s a newspaper for the
plain people.’
(To Be Continued)
A False Alarm
FRECKLES HIS FRIENDS—By BLOSSER
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CARS STOLEN AND FOUND
Two automobiles were stolen during
the night. Stuart Wilson, 4251 Park
Ave., reported his car taken from
Ohio and Meridian Sts. The auto
mobile was found by the police at
Virginia Ave., near Washington St.,
early today. Harry E. Whiteman,
3710 Fall Creek Boulevard, reported
OUR BOARDING HOUSE—By AHERN
his car stolen from Monument Circle.
His automobile was found at Vermont
and Pennsylvania Sts., at 2 a. m. to
day.
Auto Tiro Is Taken
Wilbur Bonifleld, 6528 Ferguson St.,
parked his automobile in front of
Castle Hall last night. A thief stole
a tire worth $35.
NOV. 24, 1922
—By ALLMAN
—By AL POSEN
$B,OOO LOSS AT SEELYVILLE
Bis Times Special
TERRE HAUTE. Ind.. Nov. 24.
Fire threatened to wipe out the town
of Seelyville last night when two
stores and two residences were de
stroyed. The loss was estimated at
$B,OOO. Prompt aid given by the Terre
Haute and Brazil fire departments pre
vented a larger losa