Read Online Once an Eagle by Anton Myrer - Free Book Online Page B

space. The girl took no further notice of him. There was a door beyond her to the right, and he knew without having to think it out that Congressman Bullen was in there. Once he heard a low burst of laughter, several men together, and then a single voice, slow and declamatory, the words drowned out by the crashing of the typewriter.
    He opened his coat and lifted his arms to let some air in, and surreptitiously pulled the cloth away from his skin. There was an electric fan on a window ledge, a bright copper hoop with lots of scroll work, that turned slowly, whirring in a bass thrum, playing over the secretary’s head and ruffling her hair, and he studied it with interest; he’d never seen an electric fan before. But none of its cooling breezes reached the bench. Perspiration began to run down his forehead and neck; he forced himself to wait a full five minutes before he took out his handkerchief. Time crawled along and he sat there, miserable and impatient, a slave to its whims; it was the feeling he hated more than all others. As he was mopping his face the girl suddenly pulled the letter out of the carriage and went into the other room; Sam caught a quick little glimpse of two men’s heads bent over a square of light, and that was all. He could hear nothing that was said. In a few seconds the girl came out again, picked up some official-looking papers from her desk and left the office.
    More minutes passed. Minutes of gold, of ivory, of steel. He was at the edge of the world—that fierce and glittering realm where men traveled for days in Pullman cars or rode up grand avenues in carriages or sat in oak-paneled board rooms and decided, in crisp, concise strokes, the world’s affairs. This was that world—an edge of it, anyway—and here he sat, on the edge of this edge, waiting, sticky with sweat, his hands in his lap; ineffectual. The thought lent a furious heat to his blood. When he looked at his watch again he was horrified to find it was nearly three; he’d never make it to the train. As he put the thin gold case back in his pocket the old farmer heaved himself to his feet with a grunt and lumbered by him, his heavy boots creaking on the worn floor, and went out.
    Sam waited until it was exactly three o’clock. Then he rose, and pulling down his coat again walked over to the private door, knocked smartly once and entered.
    Three men were sitting around a big mahogany desk, a much grander desk than Mr. Thornton’s, with legs like a lion’s claws sitting in glass gliders. There were two shiny brass cuspidors, one at each end of the desk. Two men were sitting in chairs at each side, the third was standing behind the desk and tapping with a pencil a huge map scored with intersecting roads and dotted with bright blue and yellow patches. All three men were in their shirt sleeves with the cuffs rolled back and they were all smoking Pittsburgh stogies. The windows were open but cigar smoke hung in the room in fragrant blue clouds.
    The man standing behind the desk was big and broad-shouldered, with a tough, craglike face as if poorly cut from some coarse-grained stone, and black wiry brows. Sam Damon recognized him at once. There had been posters up in Walt Whitman the year before, and Representative Bullen had stopped over once at the Grand Western. Sam had given him Number Fourteen, the best of the singles.
    â€œCongressman Bullen?” he said.
    The harsh face stared at him, irritated and expectant. “What is it, son?”
    â€œI’d like to see you about an appointment to West Point.”
    â€œLook, I’m pretty busy right now. You go talk to Miss Millner.”
    â€œI did, sir. But she’s been out of the office for some time, and I’ve got to catch the three forty-seven back to Walt Whitman or I’ll be late for work this evening.”
    Matt Bullen glanced at the other two men, then thrust out his lower lip and tossed the pencil on to the map in