All that was on a Saturday—Saturday morning, along toward noon.
A statue was to be unveiled in Lincoln Park at two o’clock: an equestrian statue to the memory of General Thaddeus Burke. Thaddeus Burke who had stemmed the tide at Antietam. It was a regular rocking horse, according to the art critics of the town—morose gentlemen who contributed columns of jargon to the Saturday journals. The great bronze animal reared gloriously upward from its granite base as if about to leap a barrier, and high upon its back sat the almost forgotten warrior, flourishing a bronze sword.
This remarkable effigy had been presented to the city by a wealthy manufacturer of sewing machines whose mother had been a Burke.
The ceremonies planned for the event by the park commissioners were elaborate, but the rain practically ruined them. Only a huddle of officials and an unhappy scattering of citizens turned out.
There were, however, half a dozen newspaper reporters on hand, and it was one of these who first saw the little square of paper affixed to the shrouding canvas.
“What’s that?” he asked aloud, and pointed upward at a spot that approximated the height of three tall men.
He was addressing no one in particular, but the principal orator, who was mounted somewhat higher than any of the group around him, took it upon himself to answer.
“It’s—why, it appears to be a piece of paper,” said the orator, with just a touch of irony in his voice. He craned upward again, for an instant, and added: “Yes, it is a piece of paper.”
An official bustled forward, annoyed. “Well, what the dickens is it doing there?” he asked. “Funny we didn’t notice it before. There’s something written on it, isn’t there?”
He was in a mood to be incensed by little things.
A shocking idea entered the mind of the newspaper man. He looked at his confrères with startled significance.
“Holy smoke!” he exclaimed. “Do you suppose it could be another of those …?”
His associates looked back at him as if he had suddenly gone lunatic. Dawson was a funny skate, anyway. Always suspecting mystery where there wasn’t any mystery. Now every square of paper he would see, for six months, would inflame his imagination.
Nevertheless, they drew together at the edge of the platform and stood looking up at the square of wet paper. The light rain fell upon their upturned faces.
What held the piece of paper to the canvas? Could it be the rain?
Their spokesman, the imaginative Dawson, drew the head of the official delegation to one side and whispered fiercely in his ear.
“This may be serious, Mr. Wallingford,” he said. “I advise you to have a look at that square of paper before you go ahead.”
“Nonsense!” asserted the man called Wallingford.
“Will you give me permission to climb up and have a look at it?”
“Certainly not! My dear boy, we have an audience out there in the rain waiting for us to proceed.”
“But, look here—” began Dawson.
“Oh, forget it, Larry,” interrupted his accomplices. “Let’s get this damn thing over and go home.”
“H’m,” said young Mr. Dawson, and subsided. He returned to his post under the temporary shelter.
But his mind raced. What a story, he thought, if it should turn out that …! Lord, what a story!
His friends watched him narrowly. They cast occasional nervous upward glances at the square of paper. The trouble with Dawson was that sometimes his hunches worked out. There had been that case of the prisoner in the old church, for instance!
The ceremonies went damply forward. The address of the principal orator was not a success. To the reporters it sounded like long streams of gibberish, punctuated at intervals by names calculated to elicit applause. The names were uttered in dramatic capitals. They popped out like the balls of fire in roman candles….
Washington … Hamilton … Jackson … Lincoln … Grant …
It was an apathetic audience.
At length the name was mentioned for which they all were waiting.
“Burke!”
The unhappy citizens cheered and clapped their hands. The orator stepped down with a satisfied smile. He shook hands with the sewing-machine manufacturer and the president of the Lincoln Park Board. His place was taken by a little girl attired in white. Three men hurried forward to show her what to do.
“Burke!” she echoed, with a happy smile, and fumbled with the cords, only slightly assisted by the three men who stood beside her.
“I warn you, Mr. Wallingford,” said the reporter again. “You ought to have a look at that paper. It’s not a price ticket. If it says ‘Dead Man Inside’—well, there’ll probably be one.” He was squirming with eagerness and something that resembled apprehension.
The man called Wallingford stared. “Are you crazy, Dawson?” he asked.
“I’ll think you are if you don’t take my tip,” flashed the reporter. “You read the papers, don’t you?”
“Good Lord!” whispered the official, suddenly understanding. “You don’t mean to say that you think—that you think …?”
Young Mr. Dawson laughed a trifle madly. “Oh, hell!” he said. “Go ahead and pull the cord.”
“Wait!” cried the man called Wallingford.
He moved toward the group gathered around the little girl, but he was just too late.
A signal already had been given. The shrouding canvas parted slowly and began to fall away. A plumed hat appeared, and the tip of a bronze sabre. For an instant the canvas stuck, caught perhaps by an epaulette or sword guard, then it fell swiftly, crashing to the earth with a miniature roar.
“My God!” said the president of the Lincoln Park Board.
In the dreadful pause that followed, six reporters took to their heels and fled wildly toward the nearest telephones.