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Updated: May 31, 2025
His thin hand, not so delicate now that it had learned the touch of toil, trembled a little as it held his fork. "Jeff," said he, "what do you want to do?" "I want," said Jeff, "to keep this town out of the clutch of Weedie Moore." "You can't do it. Not so long as Amabel is backing him. She's got unlimited cash, and she thinks he's God Almighty and she wants him to be mayor."
The pot was going to seethe and bubble over and some demagogue he did not mention Weedie was going to stir it, and the Addington of our fathers would be lost. The business men looked at him with the slow smile of the sane for the fanatic and answered from the fatuous optimism of the man who expects the world to last at least his time.
And pretty soon it'll eat us and eat Weedie too." He went in and up the stairs and Lydia fancied she heard the tearing of papers in his room. The dry branch has come alive. The young Jeff Lydia had known through Farvie was here, miraculously full of hope and laughter. Jeff was as different after that day as a man could be if he had been buried and revived and cast his grave-clothes off.
And I hear from reliable sources, Weedie summons them and the men simply won't go. So I assume Madame Beattie forbids it." "It's not possible." Jeff had withdrawn his gaze from the old playground and sat staring thoughtfully at his legs, stretched to their fullest length. "I rather wish I could talk with her," he said, "Madame Beattie. I don't see how I can though, unless I go there."
He believed, at the crisis, Weedie could be managed. Miss Amabel had startled his mind broad awake to what she called the great issues and what he felt were vital ones. He went on over the bridge, and up the stairs of the old Choate Building to Alston's office, and, from some sudden hesitancy, tapped on the door. "Come in," called Alston, and he went.
He screamed it at the end, this passion for new laws, and the interpreter, though he had too just an instinct to take so high a key, followed him with an able crescendo. Weedie thought he had his audience in hand, though it was the interpreter who really had it, and he ventured another stroke: "I don't want them to tell me what some man taught in Bible days.
Moore is a very able young man, of the highest ideals." Jeff laughed. It was a kindly laugh. Anne was again sure he loved Miss Amabel. "I can't see Moore changing much after twenty-five," he said to Choate, who confirmed him briefly: "Same old Weedie." "Mr. Moore is not popular," said Miss Amabel, with dignity, turning now to Farvie. "He never has been, here in Addington.
"If you wanted capital, Jeff " He took up a fold of her little shoulder ruffle and put it to his lips, and Lydia saw and wondered. "No, dear," said he. "I sha'n't need your money. Only don't you let Weedie have it, to muddle away in politics." She was turning at the edge of the corn and looking at him perplexedly. Her mission hadn't succeeded, but she loved him and wanted to make that manifest.
"We were in school with him, you know: in college, too," said Jeff, with that gentleness men always accorded her, men of perception who saw in her the motherhood destined to diffuse itself, often to no end: she was so noble and at the same time so helpless in the crystal prison of her hopes. "We knew Weedie like a book."
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