By Susan Glaspell
“Nine—ten—” The old clock paused as if in dramaticappreciation of the situation， and then slowly， weightily， itgave the final stroke， “Eleven！”
The Governor swung his chair half-way round and lookedthe timepiece full in the face. Already the seconds had begunticking off the last hour of his official life. On the stroke oftwelve another man would be Governor of the State. He satthere watching the movement of the minute hand.
The sound of voices， some jovial， some argumentative， wasborne to him through the open transom. People were beginningto gather in the corridors， and he could hear the usual disputesabout tickets of admission to the inaugural.
His secretary came in just then with some letters. “Couldyou see
Whitefield now？” he asked. “He’s waiting out here for you.”
The old man looked up wearily. “Oh， put him off， Charlie. Tellhim you can talk to him about whatever it is he wants to know.”
The secretary had his hand on the knob， when the Governoradded， “And， Charlie， keep everybody out， if you can. I’m—I’ve got a few private matters to go over.”
The younger man nodded and opened the door. He halfclosed it behind him， and then turned to say， “Except Francis.
You’ll want to see him if he comes in， won’t you？”
He frowned and moved impatiently as he answered， curtly：“Oh， yes.”
Francis！ Of course it never occurred to any of them that hecould close the door on Francis. He drummed nervously onhis desk， then suddenly reached down and， opening one of thedrawers， tossed back a few things and drew out a newspaper.
He unfolded this and spread it out on the desk. Running acrossthe page was the big black line， “Real Governors of SomeWestern States，” and just below， the first of the series， andplayed up as the most glaring example of nominal and real ingovernorship， was a sketch of Harvey Francis.
He sat there looking at it， knowing full well that it would notcontribute to his peace of mind. It did not make for placidityof spirit to be told at the end of things that he had， as a matterof fact， never been anybody at all. And the bitterest part of itwas that， looking back on it now， getting it from the viewpointof one stepping from it， he could see just how true was thestatement： “Harvey Francis has been the real Governor of theState； John Morrison his mouthpiece and figurehead.”
He walked to the window and looked out over the Januarylandscape. It may have been the snowy hills， as well as thethoughts weighing him down， that carried him back across theyears to one snowy afternoon when he stood up in a little redschoolhouse and delivered an oration on “The Responsibilitiesof Statesmanship.” He smiled as the title came back to him，and yet—what had become of the spirit of that seventeenyear-old boy？ He had meant it all then； he could remember thethrill with which he stood there that afternoon long before andpoured out his sentiments regarding the sacredness of publictrusts. What was it had kept him， when his chance came， fromworking out in his life the things he had so fervently pouredinto his schoolboy oration？
Someone was tapping at the door. It was an easy， confidenttap， and there was a good deal of reflex action in the Governor’s“Come in.”
“Indulging in a little meditation？”
The Governor frowned at the way Francis said it， and thelatter went on， easily： “Just came from a row with Dorman.
Everybody is holding him up for tickets， and he—poor youngfool—looks as though he wanted to jump in the river. Takesthings tremendously to heart—Dorman does.”
He lighted a cigar， smiling quietly over that youthful qualityof Dorman’s. “Well，” he went on， leaning back in his chairand looking about the room， “I thought I’d look in on you fora minute. You see I’ll not have the entree to the Governor’soffice by afternoon.” He laughed， the easy， good-humouredlaugh of one too sophisticated to spend emotion uselessly.
It was he who fell into meditation then， and the Governorsat looking at him； a paragraph from the newspaper came backto him： “Harvey Francis is the most dangerous type of bosspolitician. His is not the crude and vulgar method that asksa man what his vote is worth. He deals gently and tenderlywith consciences. He knows how to get a man without fatallyinjuring that man’s self-respect.”
The Governor’s own experience bore out the summary.
When elected to office as State Senator he had cherished oldfashionedideas of serving his constituents and doing hisduty. But the very first week Francis had asked one of thoselittle favours of him， and， wishing to show his appreciationof support given him in his election， he had granted it.
Then various courtesies were shown him； he was let in on a“deal，” and almost before he realised it， it seemed definitelyunderstood that he was a “Francis man.”
Francis roused himself and murmured： “Fools！—amateurs.”
“Leyman？” ventured the Governor.
“Leyman and all of his crowd！”
“And yet，” the Governor could not resist， “in another hourthis same fool will be Governor of the State. The fool seems tohave won.”
Francis rose， impatiently. “For the moment. It won’t belasting. In any profession， fools and amateurs may win singlevictories. They can’t keep it up. They don’t know how. Oh，no，” he insisted， cheerfully， “Leyman will never be re-elected.
Fact is， I’m counting on this contract business we’ve savedup for him getting in good work.” He was moving toward thedoor. “Well，” he concluded， with a curious little laugh， “seeyou upstairs.”
The Governor looked at the clock. It pointed now to twentyfiveminutes past eleven. The last hour was going fast. In avery short time he must join the party in the anteroom of theHouse. But weariness had come over him. He leaned back inhis chair and closed his eyes.
He was close upon seventy， and to-day looked even olderthan his years. It was not a vicious face， but it was not a strongone. People who wanted to say nice things of the Governorcalled him pleasant or genial or kindly. Even the men in theappointive offices did not venture to say he had much force.