Sons of Fortune (10 page)

“He
didn’t, but that didn’t stop him trying to make a move on her when he came
around to the house to see me.”

“Does
anyone else know about this?”

“Yes, my brother Dan.
He caught him in the kitchen with his hand up her skirt. My sister complained
bitterly she just couldn’t stop him.”

“Did
she?” He paused. “Do you think your brother would be willing to back me for
president?”

“Yes,
but there’s not much he can do while he’s at Princeton.”

“Oh
yes there is,” said Elliot.
“To start with.

.”

“Who’s
my main rival?” asked Nat.

“Ralph
Elliot, who else?” said Tom.

“He’s
been working on his campaign since the beginning of last term.”

“But
that’s against the rules.”

“I
don’t think Elliot has ever cared much about rules, and as he knows you’re far
more popular than he is, we can look forward to a dirty campaign.”

“But
I’m not going down that road
. .”

“So
we’ll have to take the Kennedy route.”

“What
do you have in mind?”

“You
should open your campaign by challenging Elliot to a debate.”

“He’ll
never accept.”

“Then
you win either way. If he does accept, you’ll wipe the floor with him. If he
doesn’t, we can play the “he flunked it” card.”

“So
how would you set up such a challenge?”

“Send
him a letter, a copy of which I’ll post on the bulletin board.”

“But
you’re not allowed to post notices without the principal’s permission.”

“By
the time they take it down, most people will have read it, and those that
haven’t will want to know what it said.”

“And
by then I’ll have been disqualified.”

“Not
while the principal thinks Elliot might win.”

It
was six thirty on the first day of term when Nat and Tom stood alone in the
parking lot. The first vehicle to come through the gates was the principal’s.

“Good
morning, Cartwright,” he barked, as he climbed out of his car, “
from
your excess of enthusiasm at this early hour, am I to
assume that you’re running for president?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Excellent,
and who is your main rival?”

“Ralph
Elliot.”

The
principal frowned. “Then it will be a fiercely fought competition, because
Elliot won’t roll over easily.”

“True,”
admitted Tom as the principal disappeared toward his study, leaving the two of
them to greet the second car. The occupant turned out to be a terrified new
boy, who ran away when Nat approached him, and worse, the third car was full of
Elliot supporters, who quickly fanned across the parking lot, obviously having
already been through a dress rehearsal.

“Damn,”
said Tom, “our first team meeting isn’t scheduled until the ten o’clock break.

Elliot
obviously briefed his team during the vacation.”

“Don’t
worry,” said Nat, “just grab our people as they get out of their cars, and put
them to work immediately.”

By
the time the last car had disgorged its occupants, Nat had answered nearly a
hundred questions and shaken hands with over three hundred boys, but only one
fact became clear. Elliot was happy to promise them anything in exchange for
their vote.

“Shouldn’t
we be letting everyone know what a sleaze-bag Elliot really is?”

“What
do you have in mind?” Nat asked.

“How
he cajoles new boys into parting with their allowances?”

“There’s
never been any proof.”

“Just endless complaints.”

“If
there’s that many, they’ll know where to put their cross, won’t they,” said
Nat. “In any case, that’s not the sort of campaign I want to run,” he added.
“I’d prefer to assume the voters can make up their own minds which one of us
can be trusted.”

“That’s
an original idea,” said Tom.

“Well,
at least the principal is making it clear that he doesn’t want Elliot to be
president,” said Nat.

“I
don’t think we should tell anyone that,” said Tom. “It may well swing a few
more votes to Elliot.”

“Damn,
how did he manage to pull that off?” growled Nat.

“Bribery
and corruption would be my bet,” said Jimmy. “Elliot has always been a useful
player, but never good enough to make the school team.”

“Do
you think they’ll risk putting him in the game?”

“Why not?
St. George’s
often fields a weak side, so they could leave him out there for a few minutes
once they’re confident it won’t affect the result. Then Elliot will spend the
rest of the game running up and down the sidelines, waving at the voters, while
all we can do is stare down at him from the bleachers.”

“Then
let’s make sure all our workers are in position outside the stadium a few
minutes before the game ends, and don’t let anyone see our new hand-held
placards until Saturday afternoon. That way Elliot won’t have time to come up
with his own.”

“You’re
learning fast,” said Tom.

“When
Elliot’s your opponent, you’re not left with a lot of choice.”

When
Nat arrived at the game, his placards were to be seen everywhere, and all that
the Elliot supporters could do was cry foul play. Nat and Tom couldn’t hide
their smiles as they took their places in the bleachers. The smiles broadened
when St. George’s scored early in the first quarter.

Nat
didn’t want Tail to lose, but no coach was going to risk putting Elliot on the
field while St. George’s remained in the lead. And that didn’t change until the
final quarter.

Nat
shook hands with everyone as they left the stadium, but he knew that Taft’s
last-minute victory over St. George’s hadn’t helped his cause, even if Elliot
had only been able to run up and down the sideline until the last person had
left the bleachers.

“Just
be thankful he never got into the game,” said Tom.

Over
the final weekend, Nat’s workers tried to project an air of confidence, even
though they realized it was too close to call. Neither candidate stopped
smiling, until Monday evening when the school bell struck six.

“Let’s
go back to my room,” said Tom, “and tell stories of the death of kings.”

“Sad
stories,” said Nat.

The
team all crowded into Tom’s little room and swapped anecdotes of the roles they
had played in the campaign, and laughed at jokes that weren’t funny, as they
waited impatiently to learn the result.

A
loud rap on the door interrupted their noisy exuberance. “Come in,” called Tom.

They
all stood up the moment they saw who it was standing in the doorway.

“Good
evening, Mr. Anderson,” said Nat.

“Good
evening, Cartwright,” replied the dean of students formally. “As the returning
officer in the election for president of
stu
- 68 dent
government
, I have to inform you that due to the
closeness of the result, I will be calling for a recount. Assembly has
therefore been postponed until eight o’clock.”

“Thank
you, sir,” was all Nat could think of saying.

When
eight o’clock had struck every boy was seated in his place. They rose dutifully
when the dean of students entered the hall. Nat tried to read any sign of the
result from the expression on his face, but even the Japanese would have been
proud of Mr. Anderson’s inscrutability.

The
dean walked to the center of the stage and invited the assembly to be seated.
There was a hush, rarely experienced at a normal gathering.

“I
must tell you,” began the dean, “that this was the closest result in the
school’s seventy-five-year history.” Nat could feel the palms of his hands
sweating, as he tried to remain calm. “The voting for president of student
council was Nat Cartwright, 178, Ralph Elliot, 181.”

Half
the gathering leaped to their feet and cheered, while the other half remained
seated and silent.

Nat
rose from his place, walked across to Elliot and offered his outstretched hand.

The
new president ignored it.

Nat’s
mother seemed to be one of the few people who
wasn’t
disappointed that her son hadn’t been elected president. She felt it would give
him more time to concentrate on his work. And if Susan Cartwright could have
seen the hours Nathaniel was putting in, she would have stopped worrying. Even
Tom found it difficult to pry Nat away from his books for more than a few
minutes, unless it was to go on his daily five-mile run. And even when he broke
the school cross-country record, Nat only allowed himself a couple of hours off
to celebrate.

Christmas
Eve, Christmas Day, New Year’s Eve-it made no I difference. Nat remained in his
room, head buried in his books. His mother only hoped that when he left to
spend a long weekend in Simsbury with Tom, he would take a real break. He did.

Nat
cut his workload down to two hours in the morning and another two in the
afternoon. Tom was grateful that his friend kept him to the same routine, even
if he declined the invitation to join him for his daily run. It amused Nat that
he could complete the five miles without ever leaving Tom’s estate.

“One
of your many sweethearts?” asked Nat over breakfast the following morning as
his friend tore open a letter.

“I
only wish,” said Tom. “No, it’s from Mr. Thompson asking if I want to be
considered for a part in Twelfth Night.”

“And
do you?” asked Nat.

“No.
It’s more your world than mine. I’m a producer by nature, not a performer.”

“I
would have put my name down for a part if I was confident about my Yale
application, but I haven’t even completed my independent study.”

“I
haven’t even started mine,” admitted Tom.

“Which
of the five subjects did you select?” asked Nat.

“Control
of the lower Mississippi during the Civil War,” replied Tom. “And you?”

“Clarence Darrow and his influence on the trade
union movement.”

“Yeah,
I considered Mr. Darrow, but wasn’t sure I could manage five thousand words on
the subject. No doubt you’ve already written ten.”

“No,
but I’ve almost finished a first draft, and should have a final copy ready by
the time we return in January.”

“Yale’s
deadline isn’t until February; you really ought to consider taking a part in
the school play. At least read for the audition. After all, it doesn’t have to
be the lead.”

Nat
thought about his friend’s suggestion as he buttered himself a piece of toast.
Tom was right, of course, but Nat felt it would be just another distraction if
he was hoping to win a scholarship to Yale. He glanced out of the window across
acres of land and wondered what it must be like to have parents who didn’t have
to worry about tuition payments, pocket money, and whether he could get a
holiday job during the summer vacation.

“Do
you wish to read for any particular role, Nat?” asked Mr. Thompson as he stared
up at the six-foot-two boy with a mop of black hair, whose trousers always
seemed to be a couple of inches too short.

“Antonio,
possibly
Orsino
,” replied Nat.

“You’re
a natural
Orsino
,” said Mr. Thompson, “but I have
your friend, Tom Russell, in mind for that part.”

“I’m
hardly
Malvolio
,” said Nat with a laugh.

“No,
Elliot would be my first choice for
Malvolio
,” said
Thompson with a wry smile.

Mr.
Thompson, like so many others at Tail, wished Nat had become the student
government president. “But sadly he’s not available, whereas in truth, you are
best suited for the role of Sebastian.”

Nat
wanted to protest, although when he first read the script he had to admit he
thought the part would be a challenge.

However,
its sheer length would demand hours of learning, not to mention time spent in
rehearsals. Mr. Thompson sensed Nat’s reservations. “I think the time has come
for a little bribery, Nat.”

“Bribery, sir?”

“Yes,
my boy. You see the admissions director at Yale is one of my oldest friends.

We
studied classics together at Princeton, and he always spends a weekend with me
every year. I think I’ll make it the weekend of the school play,” he paused,
“that is, if you feel able to play Sebastian.” Nat didn’t respond. “Ah, I see
bribery is not enough for someone of your high moral standards, so I shall have
to stoop to corruption.”

“Corruption,
sir?” said Nat.

“Yes, Nat, corruption.
You will have observed that there are three parts in the play for females-the
fair Olivia, your twin Viola, and the feisty Maria, not to mention understudies
and maidservants, and don’t let’s forget that they all fall in love with
Sebastian.” Nat still didn’t respond. “And,” continued Mr. Thompson, revealing
his trump card, “my opposite number at Miss Porter’s has suggested that I
should take a boy over on Saturday to read the male parts while we decide who
should audition for the females.” He paused again.