# Good Men and True; and, Hit the Line Hard/Good Men and True/Chapter 2
### Chapter II

"Life is just one damn thing after another."
—A Nameless Philosopher.
AUGHINBAUGH closed the door behind him and paused, vastly diverted. His entrance had passed unnoted, muffled by the jerky click-click of the typewriter on which Jeff Bransford toiled with painful absorption. On Jeff's forehead little beads of sweat stood out, glistening in the lamp-light. He scanned the last line, scowled ferociously, and snapped the platen back. His uncertain fingers twitched solicitously above the keys. Aughinbaugh chuckled offensively.
"‘Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look;
He thinks too much: such men are dangerous.’"
he declaimed.
Jeff whirled around. "Hello, here you are! Any news from our employer?" He rose with a sigh of relief and mopped his brow. "Gee! I've got to work the Jim-fidgets out of my fingers."
Ignoring the query, Aughinbaugh took a step forward, drew up his slender frame, inflated his chest, spread one hand upon it, and threw up his other hand with a flourish of limber fingers. "‘Now is the time,’" he spouted forth at Bransford, mouthing the well-known words,"‘for all good men and true to come to the aid of the party!’"
Jeff grinned sheepishly. "I'll dream that cussed thing to-night. How long did it take you to learn to play a tune on this fool contraption, anyhow?"
"It took me three months to—play on it anyhow. But then I already knew how to spell. I ve been at it two years since and am still improving. I should estimate that you would need about eight years. Better give it up. Try a maul or a piledriver. More suited to your capabilities. Why, Jeff, a really good stenographer can do first-class work in the dark."
"Eight years? George, you're an optimist. I've worked two solid hours on this one 'simple little sentence,' as you call it, and I've never got it right once. Sometimes I've come within one letter of it. Once I made a mighty effort and got all the letters right, but I forgot to space and ran the words together. And say—that simple little sentence hasn't got near all the letters in it. B, j, k, q, v, x and z are left out."
"Here, then—here's one that contains every letter: ‘A quick move by the enemy will jeopardize six fine gunboats.’"
Jeff pulled pad and pencil to him. "Give me that again and I'll take it down." Repeating the alphabet slowly, he canceled each letter as he went. "Right you are! Say, th e fellow that got that up was on the job, wasn't he? Why didn't you give me this one in the first place? Wonder if it's possible to get 'em all in another sentence as short?"
"I think not," said Aughinbaugh. "It's been tried. But I don't share your admiration for the last one. Besides reeking of militarism abhorrent to my peaceful disposition, it is stiff, labored, artificial and insincere. Compare it with the spontaneity, the beauty, the stately cadences, the sonorous fire, the sweep and swing of the simple, natural appeal: 'Now is the time for all good men and true to come to the aid of the party!’"
If it has ever been your privilege to observe a wise old she-bear watching her cubs at play and to note the expression of her face—half patience, tolerance, resignation; the remainder pride and approval—you will know exactly how Jeff looked. As for Aughinbaugh, he bore himself grandly, chin up. His voice was vibrant, resonant, purposeful; his eyes glowed with serious and lofty enthusiasm: no muscle quivered to a smile.
"Why, there is philosophy in it! The one unvarying factor of the human mind," he went on, "is the firm, unbiased conviction that I am right, and all opposition necessarily, consciously and wilfully wrong. This belief is the base and foundation of all human institutions, of sectionalism, caste, creeds, par ties, states, of patriotism itself. It is the premise on which all wars are based. Mark, now, how human nature speaks from its ele mental depths in the calm, complacent, but entirely sincere assumption that all good men and true will be unconditionally with the party!"
He warmed to his subject; he strode back and forth; he smote open palm with clenched fist in vehement gesture. Jeff snickered. George rebuked him with a stern and withering glance.
"I grant you that b, j, k, q, v, x and z are omitted. But what are b, j, k, q, v, x and z in comparison to the chaste perfection of this immortal line? Let them fitly typify the bad men and false who do not come to the aid of the party. Injustice is only what they deserve!"
Consigning b, j, k, q, v, x and z to outer darkness with scornful, snapping fingers, he poured a glass of water, sipped it slowly, with resolute suppression of his Adam's apple, fixed Jeff with another severe glance, paused impressively, rose to his tiptoes with both hands outspread, and continued:
"Why, sir, this is the grandest line in literature! It should hang on every wall, a text worked on a sampler by tender, loving hands! It is a ready-made watchword, a rallying cry for any great cause! It might be sung by marching thousands. When, in a great crisis, the mighty statesman, the intellectual giant between whose puny legs we petty men do creep and peer about, has proclaimed the Fla-ag in Danger; has led us to stand at the parting of the ways; has shown that the nation must make irrevocable choice of good or evil; when our hearts are thrilled with the consciousness of our own virtue——" he sprang to a chair and flaunted his handkerchief in rhythmical waves—"this, then, is his crashing peroration: 'Now is the time for all good men and true to come to the aid of the party!’"
Bowing gracefully, he carefully parted imaginary coat-tails and seated himself, beaming.
Jeff lolled contentedly back in his chair, puffing out clouds of smoke. "That's a fine line of talk you get out. You sure did a wise thing when you quit the bank and took to studying law. You have all the qualifications for a successful lawyer—or a barker for a sideshow." He tapped out his pipe and yawned lazily. "I infer from your slurring remarks about solemn, silly twaddle that you are not permanently tagged, classified, labeled and catalogued, politically?"
"I am a consistent and humble follower," replied George, "of the wise Democritus, who, as I will explain for the benefit of your benighted ignorance, is known as the Laughing Philosopher. I laugh. Therefore I can truthfully say, to paraphrase the words of a famous leader, 'I am a Democrit!’"
Jeff showed his teeth. "I guess I am, too—but I didn't know what it was till you told me. Now I have a party, at last—and now is the time for all good men and true and that reminds me, my young and exuberant friend, that you have not yet told me when our esteemed and respected employer intends to return."
"I do not quite like the tone you adopt in speaking of Mr. Simon Hibler," said George icily. "It smacks of irreverence and presumption. Still less do I relish your persistent reference to him as 'our' employer. It amounts to an assumption of a certain equality in our respective positions that I cannot for an instant tolerate." He strutted to the hearthrug and turned his back to the fire; he fiddled with his watch-chain; tone and manner were heavily pompous. "In a way, of course, Mr. Hibler might be said to employ us both. But I would have you realize that a vast gulf separates the social status of a lowly cow-servant, stolid and stunned, a brother to the ox, from that of an embryo Blackstone—like myself. I accept a position and receive a salary. You take a job and draw wages. Moreover, a lawyer's clerk marries the youngest daughter and is taken into the firm. By the way, Hibler has no daughter. I must remind him of this. 'Hibler & Aughinbaugh, Counselors at Law.' That'll look good in silver letters on a sanded, dark-blue background, eh, Jefferson? But soft! methinks my natural indignation has diverted me from your question. No, my good fellow, I do not know when Mr. Hibler is returning to El Paso. Are you already tired of urban delights, Mr. Bransford?"
"I was tired of urban delights," remarked Mr. Bransford, "before you were out of short dresses. However, I ve waited this long and I'll stay right here in El Paso till he comes. I bore myself some, daytimes, but we have bully good times of nights. You're as good as a show—better. Tune up your Julius Cæsar!"
"Your attitude—if you will overlook the involuntary rhyme," said George, "is one of base ingratitude. I endeavor to instruct and uplift you. You might be absorbing sweetness and light at every pore, acquiring a love for the true, the good and the beautiful—and you are merely amused! It is disheartening. As for this golden volume, this masterpiece of William Shakspere's genius—'which, pardon me, I do not mean to read'——"
"Oh, go on! Of course you're going to read it. We've got almost through it. You left off just beyond 'the-will-give-us-the-will, we-will-have-the-will.’"
"Why, you lazy pup, why didn't you read it yourself? You have nothing to do. I have to work."
"I did read it through to-day. And began at the first again. But," said Jeff admiringly, "I like to hear you read it. You have such a lovely voice, Mr. Crow."
Aughinbaugh bowed. "Thank you, Mr. Bransford, thank you! But I am proof against even such subtle and insidious flattery as yours. Hereafter, sir, I shall read no book through to you. I shall select works suited to your parts and your station in life and read barely enough to stimulate your sluggish mind. Then you can shell corn or be buried alive. To-night, for instance, I shall read some salient extracts from Carlyle's 'French Revolution.' You will not in the least understand it, but your interest and curiosity will be aroused. You will then finish it, with such collateral reading as I shall direct."
"Sure you got all those 'shalls' and 'wills' just right?" suggested Jeff. "It's mighty easy to get 'em tangled up."
"That is the only proper way to study history," George went on, wisely ignoring the interruption. "Read history lightly, about some period, then read the best works of poetry or fiction dealing with the same events. Then come back to history again. The characters will be real people to you and not mere names. You will eagerly extend your researches to details about these familiar acquaintances and friends, and learn particulars that you would else have shirked as dull and laborious." He took a book from the shelf. "I will now read to you—after you replenish the fire—a few chapters here and there, especially there, dealing with the taking of the Bastille."
Without, a wild March wind shrilled and moaned at the trembling casements; within, firelight's cozy cheer, Aughinbaugh's slim youth lit by the glowing circle of the shaded lamp, the dusky corners beyond. The flexible voice sank with pity or swelled with hot indignation. And Bransford, as he listened to that stupendous, chaotic drama of incoherent clangorous World Bedlam, saw, in the glowing coals, tumultuous, dim-confused figures come and go, passionate, terrible and grim; the young, the gay, the beautiful, the brave, the brave in vain; fire-hearted, vehement, proud, swallowed up by delirium. Newer shapes, wild, portentous, spluttering, flashing, whirling, leaping in wild dervish dance. In the black shadows, in the eddying thick smoke, lurked crowding shapes more terrible still, abominable, malignant, demoniacal, imbecile—Proteus shapes that changed, dwindled, leaped and roared to an indistinguishable sulphurous whirlpool, sport of all the winds. Brief flashes of clearer light there were, as the smoke billowed aside; faces gleamed a moment distinct, resolute, indomitable, bright-sparkling; blazed high—and fell, trampled down by fresh legion-changing apparitions. Sad visions, some monstrous, some heroic, all pitiful; thronging innumerable, consuming and consumed.
"Likewise ashlar stones of the Bastille continue thundering through the dusk; its paper archives shall fly white. Old secrets come to view; and long buried despair finds voice. Read this portion of an old letter: 'If for my consolation monseigneur would grant me, for the sake of God and the most blessed Trinity, that I should have news of my dear wife; were it only her name on a card to show that she is alive! It were the greatest consolation I could receive; and I should forever bless the greatness of monseigneur.' Poor prisoner, who signest thyself Quéret-Démery, and hast no other history, she is dead, that dear wife of thine, and thou art dead! 'Tis fifty years since thy breaking heart put this question; to be heard now first, and long heard, in the hearts of men."
A long silence. The fire was low. One dim, blurred form was there—an old man, writing, in a stone cell.
Aughinbaugh closed the book. His eyes were moist. "One of the greatest novels ever written, 'The Tale of Two Cities,' is based entirely upon and turns upon this last paragraph. Read that to-morrow and then come back to the 'French Revolution.' You'll be around to-morrow night?"
Jeff rose, laughing. "You remind me of my roommate at school."
"Your—what? Where?" said George in astonishment.
"Oh, yes, I've been to school, but not very long. When the boys used to stay too late he'd yawn and say to me: eff, perhaps we'd better go to bed. These people may want to go home!
"Oh, well, it's nearly twelve o clock," said George, unabashed. "And I have to work if you don't. Bless you, my children, bless you! Be happy and you will be good! Buenas noches!"
"Buenas noches!"
A trolley car whirred by, with scintillation of blue-crackling sparks. Jeff elected to walk, companied by his storied ghosts—their footsteps sounded through the rustling leaves. The wind was dead; the night was overcast, dark and chill. Aughinbaugh's lodgings were in the outskirts of the residence section; the streets at this hour were deserted. Jeff had walked briskly for ten minutes when, as he neared a corner in a quiet neighborhood, he saw a tall man in gray come from the farther side of the intersecting street just ahead. The gray man paused under the electric light to let a recklessly-driven cab overtake and pass him, and then turned diagonally over toward Jeff, whistling as he came. He was half-way across, and Jeff was within a yard of the corner, when another man, short and squat, hurried from the street to the left, brushing by so close that Jeff might have touched him. So unexpected was his appearance—for his footsteps had been drowned by the clattering cab—that Jeff was startled. He paused, midstep, for the merest fraction of a second. The town clock boomed midnight.
Thereafter, events moved with all the breathless unreality of dream. The second man turned across to meet the first. A revolver leaped up, shining in the light; he fired pointblank. The gray man staggered back. Yet, taken all unaware, so deadly swift he was that both men fired now together.
Nor was Jeff imprudently idle. He was in the line of fire, directly behind the short man. To the left, across the sidewalk, the bole of a tree was just visible beyond the house corner. Jeff leaped for this friendly shelter—and butted headlong into human ribs.
A one-hundred-and-sixty-pound projectile deals no light blow, and Jeff's initial velocity was the highest he could command at such slight notice. The owner of the ribs reeled out into the street, beyond the shadows. A huge man, breathless, gasping, with a revolver drawn; his thumb was on the hammer. So much Jeff knew and closed on him, his left hand clutched the gun, the hammer was through his finger. They wrenched and tore at the gun; and had the bigger man grappled now he might have crushed Jeff at once, broken him by main strength. But he was a man of one idea—and he had a second gun. A violent jerk threw Jeff to his knee, but he kept his desperate grip. The second gun flashed in the giant's left hand, rising and falling with the frontier firing motion; but Jeff's own gun was out, he struck up the falling death, the bullet sang above him. He was on his feet, in trampling, unreal struggle; again he struck the gun aside as it belched fire. Turning, whirling, straining, Jeff was dizzily conscious that the men beneath the light were down, both still shooting; the cab had stopped, men were running toward him shouting. The giant's dreadful strength was undirected, heaving and thrusting purposeless; time for order and response would be time for crashing death to find him; his one frantic thought was to shoot first, to shoot fast. Shaken, tossed and thrown, Jeff kept his feet, kept his head, kept close in; as the great man's gun rose and fell he parried with his own. Three shots, four—the others fired no longer; five—one more—Six! It was warded, Jeff drew back, fired his first shot from his hip; the giant dragged at him, heaved forward, and struck out mightily, hammerwise. Jeff saw the blow gleaming down as he fired again. Glint of myriad lights streamed sparkwise across an infinite blackness; he knew no more.
The clock was still striking.