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It was for each man to decide at this election whether Tinkersfield should have a future of darkness or of light. There were men in that crowd who squared their shoulders to meet the blows of his eloquence, who kept them squared as they made their decision to do their part in the upbuilding of Tinkersfield. Yet it was not perhaps so much the things that O-liver said as the way he said them.
"How?" asked the interested Tommy. "Work for them." "O-liver says that fifteen dollars a week is enough for anybody to earn." Jane had heard of O-liver. Tommy sang his constant praises. "Why fifteen?" "After that you get soft." Jane laid down the length of pink gingham and looked at him. She hated to sew on pink; it clashed dreadfully with her hair.
They wondered, too, if there wasn't some truth in the things that were being hinted by that low chant in the darkness: Ask Jane, Sandwich Jane, O-liver, white liver, Jane, Jane, Jane. O-liver was restless, his hands clenched at his sides. Atwood and Henry were restless. Tommy was restless. They couldn't let such insults go unnoticed. Somebody had to fight for Jane!
In the strong glare everything about her was overemphasized, but O-liver knew that when she showed up on the screen she would be entrancing. He had first seen her on the screen. He had met her afterward at her hotel. She had seemed as ingenuous as the parts she played. Perhaps she was. He could never be quite sure. Perhaps the money she had made afterward had spoiled her.
She's making it and spending it, I fancy." Silence. Then: "What of this other woman. What are you going to do about her?" O-liver leaned forward, speaking earnestly. "I love her. But I'm not free. It's all a muddle." "Does she know you're married?" "No. I've got to tell her. But I'll lose her if I do. Her comradeship, I mean. And I don't want to give it up." "There is of course a solution."
"You are not my son," he had said sternly. "If the time ever comes when you can say you are sorry, I'll see you." O-liver having married Fluffy Hair had found her also self-centered not a lady like his mother, but fundamentally of the same type. Neither of them had made him feel that he might be more than he was. They had always shrunk him to their own somewhat small patterns.
It depended largely on the nature of the particular male. O-liver rode Mary Pick and wore his straw helmet. His way led down into the valley and up again and down, until at last he came to the sea. Then he followed the water's edge, letting Mary Pick dance now and then on the hard beach, with the waves curling up like cream, and beyond the waves a stretch of pale azure to the horizon.
"But I'll give you a toast." He gave it, poised on his box like a young god on the edge of the world. "Here's to poverty! May we learn to love her for the favors she denies!" "Queer chap," said Atwood to Henry later. Henry nodded. "He's queer, but he's great company. Always has a crowd round him. But no ambition." "Pity," said Atwood. "How'd he get that name O-liver?"
The platform was illumined by little lights like stars. Back of the platform the eucalyptus trees were now pale spectres, their leaves hanging nerveless in the still air. O-liver sitting down amid thunders of applause let his eyes go for the moment to Jane. A lamp hung almost directly over her head. She had taken off her wide hat and her hair was glorious.
It was only when he was alone that he permitted himself the indulgence of more formal language. That Jane was harried he could see. And suddenly he rode forward on Mary Pick. The crowd made way for him expectantly. There were always interesting developments when O-liver was on the scene. "Gentlemen," he said, "let the lady speak for herself.
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