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Updated: June 23, 2025
"The young fellow in the grey suit? Sure. Who is he? He looks as if he was pretty well fixed." "I guess he is," replied the first. "That's Paret. He's Scherer's confidential counsel. He used to be Senator Watling's partner, but they say he's even got something on the old man."
Even the discontented, half-baked and heterogeneous element from which the Pilot got its circulation had short memories. The next morning, which was Sunday, I went to Mr. Watling's house in, Fillmore Street a new residence at that time, being admired as the dernier cri in architecture.
"I haven't congratulated you yet, Hugh," she said suddenly, "now that you are a partner of Mr. Watling's. I hear on all sides that you are on the high road to a great success." "Of course I'm glad to be in the firm," I admitted. It was a new tack for Nancy, rather a disquieting one, this discussion of my affairs, which she had so long avoided or ignored.
Miller Gorse was there, and Tallant, waving a palm-leaf while sitting under the electric fan. They were all very grave, and they began to talk about the suddenness of Mr. Watling's illness and to speculate upon its nature.
Watling's hand, warmly, in both of his own. "I have never," he said, with a relapse into the German f's, "I have never had a happier moment in my life, my friend, than when I congratulate you on your success." His voice shook with emotion. "Alas, we shall not see so much of you now." "He'll be on guard, Scherer," said Leonard Dickinson, putting his arm around my chief.
This matter among others was the subject of discussion one July morning when the Republican State Chairman was in the city; Mr. Grunewald expressed anxiety over Mr. Jason's continued silence. It was expedient that somebody should "see" the boss. "Why not Paret?" suggested Leonard Dickinson. Mr. Watling was not present at this conference. "Paret seems to be running Watling's campaign, anyway."
Paret," he observed. "Know who you are, of course, knew you were in Watling's office. Then some of the boys spoke about you when you were down at the legislature on that Ribblevale matter. Guess you had more to do with that bill than came out in the newspapers eh?" I was taken off my guard. "Oh, that's talk," I said. "All right, it's talk, then?
Watling's eyes met mine; his glance was amused, yet I thought I read in it a query as to the advisability, in my presence, of going too deeply into the question of ways and means. I may have been wrong. At any rate, its sudden effect was to embolden me to give voice to an idea that had begun to simmer in my mind, that excited me, and yet I had feared to utter it.
"Sitting in the corner of the balcony. That meeting must have made him feel sick." George bent forward and whispered in my ear: "I thought Bill 709 was Watling's idea." "Oh, I happened to be in the Potts House about that time," I explained. George, of whom it may be gathered that he was not wholly unsophisticated, grinned at me appreciatively.
Watling's Island, as it is now called, or San Salvador, as Columbus named it, or Guanahani, as it was known to the aborigines, is situated in latitude 24 deg. 6' N., and longitude 74 deg 26' W., and is an irregularly shaped white sandstone islet in about the middle of the great Bahama Bank.
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