“Good God! Are you crazy?”
“No,” said James, “I am not crazy. But I am through with pandering to the low appetites of the people. I was wrong ever to begin it. My true appeal is to the intellect, and not to the senses; and in the future, I shall make it there. I do not fear their disloyalty.”
For a full minute Shorty was silent with horror and astonishment. Such sublime folly left him speechless. There was no doubt that James was in earnest. Never had he spoken with more firm decision. With a resolution born of despair, Shorty began to plead, cajole, and threaten; his eyes filled with tears; the foam on his schooner of beer was sadly melting away unnoticed. James was as immovable as the Rock of Ages, and refused to recede a step from his uncompromising position.
Then, suddenly, James was struck with an idea. It was more than that; it was an inspiration. He revolved it slowly in his mind, while Shorty continued his gloomy prophecy of the political future of Mr. Hamlin, and then, having decided, held up his hand for silence.
“Very well,” he said, “we’ll have the picnic.”
“What!” gasped Shorty.
“We’ll have the picnic,” James repeated.
“Thank God!” said Shorty fervently. “And believe me, Mr. Hamlin, you won’t regret it.”
“I don’t expect to,” said James shortly. “And now—”
“First,” Shorty interrupted, “where’ll it be? There’s Hiebstein’s Casino, and Kelly’s Grove, and Murray’s Bay Park, and—”
“That,” said James, “I’ll take care of myself. The only thing you need to be interested in is the inviting. I’ll attend to everything else. Tell them to meet me at Columbia Hall on — what’s the date?”
“The twenty-second. Mike O’Toole pulls his off on the twenty-ninth — that’s a week from today.”
“Just the thing. We’ll have ours on the same day. We’ll meet at Columbia Hall at 10 A.M. on Saturday the twenty-ninth.”
“But—” Shorty hesitated.
“Well?”
“See here, Mr. Hamlin, why don’t you let me manage this for you? They’ll at least want to know where they’re goin’. And what’s the use of meetin’ in a hall? Why not at the ferry or the station? I tell you they won’t like it.”
“Then they don’t need to come,” declared James.
“Oh, they’ll come all right,” said Shorty. “But I hope to God you know what you’re doin’. It don’t look good to me.”
James arose from his chair and looked down at Shorty. “See here,” he said, “I’m getting tired of your insolence. Kindly remember who I am. Now go and tell Dan Murphy that I want to see him here at once.” And Shorty went.
By the following evening the district was in the midst of a hot discussion as to the probable plans for Hamlin’s first annual picnic. Shorty had been in error. It was the universal opinion that the element of uncertainty — almost mystery — was so far from being obnoxious that it was a positive attraction. Many were the conjectures, and they were as wild as they were numerous. Pink Russell declared that the whole district was to be taken in automobiles to Palisades Park, which was to be rented in its entirety for the day; but though this thrilling flight of imagination was heartily applauded, it was generally believed that Pink’s optimism was running away with him. Most of the guesses were much more modest, though all were agreed that, considering Mr. Hamlin’s well-known generosity, almost anything might happen.
Mike O’Toole was in despair. He had decided to make one last grand effort to regain his supremacy, and his arrangements for June twenty-ninth has been advertised from one end of the district to the other as the most elaborate and wonderful ever attempted in its history. And James, by arranging for his own outing on the same day, had killed Mike’s last hope and spiked his last gun.
Shorty’s entreaties for details of James’ plans were in vain. If James had been trying to qualify for the title role in a clambake he couldn’t have been closer-mouthed. Shorty finally gave it up in despair and fell to organizing potato races and greased pig contests.
By the morning of Saturday, June twenty-ninth, the tension had stretched almost to the breaking point. At half-past eight Columbia Hall was beginning to fill; by nine o’clock it was crowded. The air was full of suspense. Wild rumors flew around and evoked protests and applause in turn. Never before had the district been so much aroused; even the excitement of election day was nothing to this.
In the past few days the district had become definitely divided into two groups. One of these declared Pelham Bay Park to be the destination; the other, College Point. Now the dispute waged hot and furious; bets were made at odds of two to one on College Point, it being the favorite; and Tim Dorgan and Ham Keefe even went so far as to necessitate their being carried into the street to end their argument, where Pelham Bay Park, represented by Dorgan, won by a knockout in the first minute. At half-past nine the door opened to admit Shorty.
“Where is it?” yelled Dan Murphy. “Now open up, ye oyster!”
“Go t’ell!” shouted Shorty. “I know more than you do, but I don’t know that.”
“You’re a liar!” said Murphy calmly. “You’ve known all along.”
Shorty started for him. “Ye black-faced, yellow-backed—” but he was held back by a dozen encircling arms, whose owners insisted on his remembering that he was a gentleman in the presence of ladies, though not exactly in those terms.
At a quarter to ten the crowd, which had been merely noisy and happy, began to grow impatient. Five minutes later Shorty, in answer to the growing demand, started for the door on a hurry call for James Hamlin. He had gotten only halfway from his seat when the door opened to admit James himself.
“Speakin’ o’ the devil,” growled Murphy.
“Shut up!” said Shorty.
James was not alone. Through the door behind him came first one man, then another, then another. They grouped themselves silently at the door, then, still following James, marched solemnly onto the stage and seated themselves near its center. James advanced to the edge of the platform and stood with one hand behind his back, the other thrust into the bosom of his coat.
By now the crowd had recovered from its surprise at the appearance of the strangers. They vaguely resented this intrusion of visitors on the district’s most intimate day, but at least their leader had not disappointed them. There he was, ready to take them — God knows where. Shorty was already on his feet.
“Three cheers for Honest James Hamlin!” he shouted. The crowd responded nobly. James turned to the three strangers on the platform with a satisfied smile, then turned back to the cheering throng and raised a hand for silence.
His speech was short; so short, in fact, that it can be reproduced in its entirety:
“Ladies, gentlemen — and children: It is needless to tell you how gratified I am by the noble manner in which you have responded to my invitation to be with me today. However sanguine were my expectations, I assure you I had no hope of seeing such a multitude as is assembled here before me. There are, I should say, at least eight hundred persons in this audience—”
“Nine hundred and sixty-five,” said Shorty.
“Thank you. Nine hundred and sixty-five persons in this audience, who have thus taken occasion to honor me and the cause I represent.
“Now, I know you are all eager and curious concerning the surprise I have in store for you, and I have no desire to continue your suspense. In past years it has been the custom of leaders in this district to select a day at this season of the year and invite you to spend it with them, mostly at their expense, in amusement which, though probably innocent, is certainly neither instructive nor profitable. All this I have altered. I believe you to be honest, serious men and women, and I believe you would greatly prefer spending this day in a manner that will suit better your dignity, and increase your value, as citizens.”