Judge — October 21, 1922 — page 26: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

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A Story of Virtue Rewarded (Continued from page 3) ural paternal curiosity was moving a smooth old man was checked, if not allayed, by the obvious exuberance of his slick son, and Hosea was satisfied that in some strange oleaginous way the visit to Cincinnati had its deep cosmic relation to the political salva- tion of Gertysville. It was agreed that Carter should make his headquarters in the black- smith shop across the street from the polling place where he was supposed to dispense cigars and whisky and other iridescent evidences that the purification of politics was a realizable dream in Gertysville. “It was a day of triumph in Capua.” By seven-thirty in the morning a pure electorate and undefiled was sitting on the fence beside the blacksmith shop, or on the bench in front of the saloon, or leaning against the hitching rack in front of the church, waiting for the prostitution of a democracy to begin. It was a slow process. Somewhat because the Lamb Mercantile Co. was squirming helplessly under the wish to postpone the debauchery until as late in the day as possible so that Old Man Horton would not get the benefit of the Lamb money for his special sale. Eight o’clock came and no one had voted. At nine a leader of the Lamb cohorts of sin walked out of the black- smith shop and voted. He straddled his horse and went home without say- ing a word. But he shot a forty horse power wink at the crowd by the church, and one of the leaders of the movement to Remove the Stain of Corruption from Liberty’s Fair Brow ambled over to the blacksmith shop, went into the shed alone with Carter Horton and walked briskly across the street and voted. As he passed the group before the church he grinned and, putting his thumb in his vest pocket, lifted a greenback above the pocket’s horizon, then he went home. Two others from the church group and one from the saloon hurried across to the blacksmith shop before stepping into the booth. The agents of a de- cadent manhood in the Lamb store sent out scouts, being alarmed. The scouts went to the polls and voted, and did not return to the Lamb store. Ten-dollar bills from the blacksmith shop soon began fluttering on the breeze. And soon the wives and daughters and maiden aunts of the shameless betrayers of their country’s honor began to flock to the Horton cash store. Later they came out with the spoil and loot of Hosea’s special sale. The Lamb Mercantile Company sent a courier to the county seat for the sheriff, but the Horton crowd sent a man to meet the sheriff, and he turned back five miles out of town, so the orgy of sin and iniquity raged undisturbed. Men came in from ad- joining townships to vote. Carter Horton stayed in his headquarters all day. They brought him lunch from the saloon. And also Hosea, the duti- 24 ful father, hearing the cheerful news of battle as he dispensed his wares, serene in the knowledge that Carter was carrying the banner of the Lord to victory, remained behind his counter all day—lunching on cheese, pickles and crackers. When the polls closed at night, Scattering and Ben Butler had more votes than the loathed son- in-law of the esteemed opposition. Virtue triumphed. And until far into the night Hosea Horton and his clerk were counting cash and clearing up the litter of their day’s “slaughter of prices.” The next morning the victor strolled into the store at nine o’clock after a luxurious breakfast. He noted with surprise the scant stock on the shelves. But he saw his father’s face wreathed in smiles. “Where's the stock, pater?” asked the conqueror, looking at the naked walls. “The stock?” answered his father. “Great Jehosophat, son, we never had such a day as yesterday. They liter- ally cleaned us out. I've got nineteen hundred and seventy-eight dollars in the safe! That old hellhound of in- iquity up street won't sell a yard of calico or a pound of flour for a year.” Carter Horton's face blanched. “A sale! Say, did you put on a sale yesterday? Why didn’t you tell me?” The exalted merchant had his pride. He didn’t have to consult anyone about his business. Carter led his father to the safe. “Let me see what you got,” he asked. They drew forth the drawer and saw a great pile of bills, all ten-dollar bills, carefully bound in rubber bands, stacked in the cash box. Carter slumped against the nearby doorsill, and looking at the barren shelves began to moisten his lips and breathe hard. “Father,” he cried, “them bills is my bills. I brought ’em down from Cincinnati myself—all of them!” The father looked dazed and hurt for a moment. Then the blow fell. “And, father, every damn one is a counterfeit!” a THE JUNIOR RED CROSS ical Grows Through Service 5 | | al v