McBane was rich; he lived in Wellington, but he had never
been invited to the home of either General Belmont or Major Carteret,
nor asked to join the club of which they were members. His face,
therefore, wore a distinct scowl, and his single eye glowed ominously.
He would help these fellows carry the state for white supremacy, and
then he would have his innings,--he would have more to say than they
dreamed, as to who should fill the offices under the new deal. Men of no
better birth or breeding than he had represented Southern states in
Congress since the war. Why should he not run for governor,
representative, whatever he chose? He had money enough to buy out half a
dozen of these broken-down aristocrats, and money was all-powerful.
"You see, captain," the general went on, looking McBane smilingly and
unflinchingly in the eye, "we need white immigration--we need Northern
capital. 'A good name is better than great riches,' and we must prove
our cause a righteous one."
"We must be armed at all points," added Carteret, "and prepared for
defense as well as for attack,--we must make our campaign a national
one."
"For instance," resumed the general, "you, Carteret, represent the
Associated Press. Through your hands passes all the news of the state.
What more powerful medium for the propagation of an idea? The man who
would govern a nation by writing its songs was a blethering idiot beside
the fellow who can edit its news dispatches. The negroes are playing
into our hands,--every crime that one of them commits is reported by us.
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