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The Honorable Uncle Lancy
By ETHEL HUESTON
O Bobb»-M.frlll Co, WNU S * rv,c *
THE STORY THUS FAR
Left orphans by « traffic automobile accident which claimed the lives of their
mother and father, three sisters, Helen, Adele and "Limpy," are visited by their
Aunt Olympia, politically minded wife of Senator Alencon Delaporte Slopshire.
She Insists that the girls return with her to Washington, to make their home
i with them. In addition to loving the girls, Aunt Olympia knows they will be a
terrific poUtirol asset. Senator Slopshire has as his political opponent one Brother
Wilkie, a minister, whose politic!.: campaign Is furthered by seven "unspeakable
brats" who sit on the rostrum with him while he makes speeches. Aunt Olympia
and the Senator, kind and loving, nevertheless know that their three nieces will
mean votes for the Senator. Senator Slopshire, a pleasantly foggy Individual who
depends on the astuteness of his wife, prepares lor their coming. Though Ltmpy.
the youngest, Is 10, and Helen, the oldest, Is 21, the Senator buys them all the toys
and gifts he can find, feeling that "children” should be occupied. When they first
meet their "Uncle Lancy," as he Is to be known, the girls take him to their united
. bosom. Soon Adele. most beautiful of the sisters, meets Len Hardesty, publicity
man for Brother Wilkie. Though It )* Len's Job to help defeat the Senator, he
promptly falls In love with Adele.
CHAPTER IV— Continued
—6—
The Senator coughed deprecating
ly. “She’s joking, Adele. This is pre
election stuff. Before election day,
she’ll be telling me, with force
ful, if inelegant, expletives, that if
I ever run for anything again she’ll
divorce, and probably de-neck, me.
This is before-the-campaign stuff.”
‘‘My very words,” said Aunt
Olympia complacently.
“I forgot my quotes,” admitted
Uncle Lancy,
“What a cocky little fool I was,
Brick,” Helen wrote home to lowa,
‘‘to think I could learn this racket in
one year. Aunt Olympia’s been in
it right from the cradle —or at least
from the marriage altar—and she
says it’s still so much haywire to
her. It seems to be mostly luck
and 'getting the breaks,’ and of
course, seizing Opportunity before
the Opposition gets hold of it. Aunt
Olympia says if she didn’t watch
every breath the Senator draws, he’d
get himself impeached before break
fast. But I am learning a little, I
think.
“There’s one thing I’ve learned,
and this is important. We’ve got to
get over that provincial feeling that
political opponents are social leper*,
to be snubbed and ostracised and
passed by on the other side. Aunt
Olympia says it is a sign of superi
ority to hobnob with the Opposition
—except at the polls, of course. She
says it is only little fry who carry
political animosities further than the
Congressional Record. And I must
say, she lives up to her philosophy.
I’ve met quite a number of Repub
lican wives and they are very nice
to me and ask me to their meetings
and teas, and Aunt Olympia encour
ages me to go. Sometimes she goes
with me.
‘‘Really, Brick, they are amaz
ing, Uncle Lancy and she. Take
Len Hardesty for instance. He is
here half the time, mooning over
Adele mostly, but always showing
up at the dinner table and the cock
tail tray.
And last week who should breeze
in unexpectedly but Brother Wilkie,
the Governor, running against Uncle
Lancy. He ’phoned and Auntie asked
him to dinner and he came. They
were lovely to him and Aunt Olym
pia asked him to ask the blessing.”
Aunt Olympia was far deeper in
the campaign than either the girls
or the Senator realized. She spent
two hours every morning carefully
conning the important dailies from
home and making notes of things to
be attended to; cards of congratula
tions from herself and the Senator
to everyone having babies or getting
married; condolences for illness and
death; approval of the activities of
club* and church organizations,
with pertinent suggestions and of
fering co-operation; and she pains
takingly, with well-concealed bitter
ness, received every constituent who
happened to he in Washington and
telephoned or called.
By the first of April Olympia had
completed plans for the campaign
entourage; deciding on a motor
trailer to insure the domesticity of
the family, with beds, kitchen and
cozy dinette.
“We won’t have to eat there
much,” she assured the girls kind
ly. “Just enough to get good photos
of how domestic and homey we are,
with you girls tripping prettily
around at your work. We’ll have
Hilda send us a crate of cooked food
every day.”
‘‘Doesn’t she campaign with us?”
“Oh, nol Except in the Scandi
navian districts, where she sits at
the table with us . . , Not in the
rest of the state. The average voter
thinks if a Senator can afford a
maid he’s getting too much money.”
There would be a sound truck for
the Senator’s speeches and in addi
tion to their own big car, a couple
of secondhand Fords for the staff,
visiting reporters, et al. She fretted
a good deal over the sound truck,
having ideas of her own on that im
portant matter. It must have
microphones both inside and on the
driver’s seat: on the driver’s seat
to show the Senator off in good
weather and inside “for rain; the
Senator catches cold if he gets wet.”
After consulting and personally
inspecting every make of trailer
and sound truck on the market, she
decided to buy—from some home
dealer, of course—old, run-down, an
tiquated cars that could be rebuilt.
“The shabbier the better—on the
outside,” she explained to the girls.
“To take some of the gravel off that
‘Alencon’ . . . New cars look royal
istic . . . But don’t worry. We’ll
have the best and most modern en
gines installed under the rusty
floods; like Unci* Joe Cannon, with
silk underwear under his homey
homespun. We’ll have them rebuilt
from the tires up—on the inside.
Fortunately, the works don’t show.”
Aunt Olympia knew her Congres
sional Record better than her “Al
ice in Wonderland.” She went
straight back to the campaign.
She sent up to Maysville, her
home town and the state capital, for
a motor dealer and had him come
to Washington—at the Senator’s ex
pense—to get her ideas. She had
drawn rough drafts of what she de
sired, both in trailer and trunk, but
the expert did not comprehend them
readily.
“Why, it’s as simple as a—a log
arithm,” she said irritably. “For
the sound truck we want a second
hand, run-down delivery wagon, an
enclosed one, of course. Put in the
best works you can get hold of.
Get a good sound man to wire it,
with miles on the driver’s seat as
well as inside. Build cabinets of
shelves and drawers along the in
side to put papers and books in.
And leave room for a good easy
chair for the Senator, because his
feet swell before the end of the cam-
Tlie Senator coughed cleprecat
ingly. “She’s joking, my dear,”
he said.
paign. And put in long narrow win
dows on each side for ventilation.
Isn’t that simple enough?”
“What color you want this paint
ed?”
“I don’t want it painted,” she
said exasperatedly. “No paint! I
want rust and mud and scratches
and dents, but no paint. If it’s
painted when you get it, you set fire
to it or soak it in acid. Is that
clear?”
The month of April she devoted
pretty largely to planning the girls’
campaign wardrobes. On these, she
spared neither time, talent nor ex
pense. She had the best dressmak
ers and designers in Washington at
work. There were graceful, girlish
dresses for afternoon and for din
ner; there were sport clothes, bath
ing suits, riding costumes; there
were fetching little costumes of fin
est gingham for their dainty house
work about the trailer. Aunt Olym
pia persistently referred to these as
their “cottons.”
“Why cotton, Auntie?” demand
ed Limpy. “We don’t raise cotton
up there, do we?”
“No, darling,” said Aunt Olym
pia, beaming approval for her acu
men. “We don’t raise cotton, but
we have nineteen large cotton mills
and they employ at least ten thou
sand constituents.”
Although all their dresses were
what Aunt Olympia called “vote
getters” to the last ribbon and the
smallest button, she reserved her
most passionate interest for what
she called their “wind-up ensem
bles. The Senator winds up with a
huge rally. That’s the big night. You
catch a lot of voters—floaters, they
are—if you handle the wind-up right.
Your wind-up costumes are to be
chef d’oeuvres; absolutely chef
d’oeuvres.”
“It can’t be the same as hors
d’oeuvres,” Limpy assured her sis
ters. “Not even Aunt Olympia
would expect them to eat us.”
“I wouldn’t trust Len Hardesty,”
said Aunt Olympia. “Not if Adele
looks as well as I expect . . . Let
me see, that will be the first week
of November. Fall dresses. Felt
hats. Wide, sweeping black for Hel
en with little white doodads. Droopy
white for Limpy with long black
streamers.”
HOUSTON HOME JOURNAL. PERRY. GEORGIA
"I suppose I’m to go barehead
ed,” said Adele.
“No, no, darling! Not quite. Tee
ny black and white something or
other, with a bit of a veil and my
only regret is that Len Hardesty
won’t be there to see it. He’d stran
gle the brats with his bare hands.”
Helen did not follow the prelimi
nary campaign activities as closely
as her sisters. Studying the politi
cal racket kept her fairly busy. She
read the Congressional Record con
scientiously, if boredly. She spent
hours visiting the Senator’s commit
tees and trying to make heads and
tails of things which didn’t make
sense to an average intelligence like
hers. She hung over the gallery of
the House as if she had become a
fixture there.
Aunt Olympia at last reached a
stage of her preparations where she
felt impelled to ask the Senator’s
advice.
“Del, how about a publicity man
for our campaign?”
“Why, we’re going to have Dave
Cooper. He’s the best we can get,
since Len’s tied up. I’ve already
spoken to him about it. He’s work
ing on it now.”
“Yes, of course, for you,” she
said significantly. “But how about
the girls here?”
The Senator wisely said nothing,
but the girls rose to it.
“For us!”
“We’ve had enough publicity to
last us a lifetime!”
“Heavens, Auntie, do we rate a
publicity man?”
“Oh. he’ll only be an assistant to
Dave Cooper, but we’ll need some
one to handle our end of it. DaveTl
be pretty busy . . . We need some
one more sentimental. For sob stuff.
Heart interest. Human appeal. Let
me see—um—ah! Del—what would
you think of—-well, what would you
think of—say—someone like—Cecil
Dodd?”
The Senator came to with a snap.
“Cecil Dodd! . . . Cecil Dodd, my
dear!” The Senator put on an ex
tra pair of glasses to regard her
more severely. “Why, Ollie, Cecil
Dodd doesn’t know the first thing
about politics! He’d never get to
first base. In fact, he’d never even
get to bat. He’s never been in a
campaign in his life. Cecil Dodd
well, Cecil Dodd is what I call a
sofa-sitter. But I’ve heard it ex
pressed more forcibly and perhaps
with more truth.”
“Oh, he’s not so dumb,” Olympia
rose to the argument. “He’s chock
full of human appeal; full of adjec
tives; why, he knows adjectives I’ve
never even heard of! He’s the loud
est exponent of youth and beauty
in Washington. Do you remember
those articles he wrote when Sissy
Graves was killed in an airplane
accident? A dozen people vrere
killed—and some of them important
—but he wrote about Sissy with so
much heart appeal that everybody
forgot all about the rest of them and
made it her exclusive fatality. I
know it brought tears to my eyes.”
“I don’t go in for tears in a cam
paign,” he said, more on the de
fensive than the girls had ever seen
him. “There isn’t going to be any
thing milksop about this campaign.
It’s going to be muddy.”
“He’s a fine dancer; he rides
horseback and plays tennis and golf
and has taken prizes for swimming
and diving. Del, try to forget your
personal, political aspirations for
once in your life, and think of these
poor dear children! Don’t you want
them to have any amusement? Do
you expect them to listen to you
make speeches and shake hands for
six months with no exercise, no
fresh air and no—no.young compan
ionship?”
This put a different light on the
matter. The Senator took off both
pairs of glasses and set to wiping
one. “That’s so,” he assented. “I
didn’t mean to be selfish, my dear.
The children come first, of course
. . . But I don’t suppose we can
get him. I don’t think he could tear
himself away from the sofas long
enough.”
“We can get him,” said Olympia.
“I’ve already spoken to him—just
tentatively, you understand; asking
why he didn’t get into the political
end of it and he said he wanted to
but never got the breaks. We can
get him.” A happy smile rosied her
face. “Wait till Len Hardesty hears
this!”
Len Hardesty was not long hear
ing it. He dropped in on them the
next night.
“Had to fly down,” he said cheer
fully. “Got to fly back, too. The
Governor’s going tightwad on me.”
“I’m glad you came, Len,” said
Olympia heartily, almost fondly. “I
want to ask your advice about some
thing.”
A guarded expression settled over
his face. “Oh, you do eh? Then
you’re up to something I’m
against.” He braced himself to re
ceive it. “All right. Let's have it.
It’s dead wrong and you know it.”
Olympia laughed happily. “Oh,
it’s really nothing or I shouldn’t be
asking your advice. It’s a mere de
tail. It’s about a publicity man for
the campaign. You know those pub
licity gangsters better than we do.”
Len, who had thought he was pre-
I pared for anything, was genuinely
surprised.
“Publicity man! Why, you dumb
j -luck, aren't you having Dave Coop
er? If you’re not, you’d tetter get
him and get him guick. He's tops.”
“Don’t be silly, Len. Of course
we’re having him . . . For the Sen
ator . . . But we’ve got to have an
assistant. You see, there’s going
to be quit-* ♦ cavalcade of us—what
with the trailer and the tent and the
sound truck end three cars. We
don't want anybody to work day
and night for us. We’re not like
some candidates, who expect a poor
publicity man to live, move and
have his being with seven brats and
a trumpeting beldame.”
“I smell a rat,” said Len Har
desty. “You never gave me an
assistant.”
“But we’re a much larger party
this year, you silly dunce . . . No,
definitely, I am for you laboring
classes and I will not have poor old
Dave imposed on and worked tc
death, not even for the Senator. But
we’ll expect his assistant chiefly to
handle our end of it, mine and the
girls’, when the Senator and Dave
are off on their flying junkets and
we’re cooped up in the trailer. We’ll
need someone rather young and
fairly presentable, don’t you think?
So he can be a sort of companion
to the girls when they’re dancing
and riding and swimming? And you
know yourself, Len, that fairly pre
sentable publicity men are hard to
get. I don’t know that I’ve ever
seen one.”
“I’m sorry I spent the money to
fly down,” he said grimly. “If I’m
to pick out a man for you, seems to
me you ought to pay the bill out
of your expense account.”
“Unfortunately we haven’t a per
centage club, like the Governor,”
she disclaimed quickly. “Besides,
darling, I don’t expect you to pick
him out.”
“That’s what I was afraid of,” he
admitted gloomily. “Now let’s get
this straight, Ollie. You speak of
your cavalcade of cars. What’s it
to be? A campaign for re-election,
or a specially conducted young la
dies’ tour with a presentable es
cort?”
“The election comes first, of
course. But after all, the Senator—
Uncle Lancy—and I cannot overlook
our responsibility to these poor dear
children. We must provide for them
as best we can, even in the exigen
cies of a campaign. Who would you
suggest?”
“I wouldn’t suggest anybody. I’d
suggest putting the girls ih jail till
I get rid of the Governor. They
don’t need an escort. Dftve Coop
er can handle them. True, he’s no
Don Juan! He’s forty and fat and
married and chews tobacco. But he
can give you all the publicity you
need and more than you merit.”
“I was thinking of someone like
well, how about Cecil Dodd?”
“Cecil Doddl Lord, Ollie, if you
upholster your trailer in purple du
vetyn and silken cushions you’ll
elect the Governor! . . . Cecil
Dodd! . . . Ollie, we’ve had our oc
casional differences but I’ve al
ways admired you as a straight
shooting, shoulder-to-shoulder old
trooper . . . Cecil Doddl . . .
Do you want to shatter a young
man’s fondest illusions? . . . Cecil
& i mm
“Do you want to shatter a young
man’s fondest illusions?”
Doddl You’re not taking him to play
politics. You’re taking him to gum
up my works.”
“He writes very beautiful and
touching articles, Len Hardesty, and
you can’t deny it . . . But I admit
I want him especially as a sort of a
companion—a sort of chaperon for
the girls . . . When they do their
playing ... I can’t keep my mind
on them every minute and run this
campaign at the same time.”
“No! So you salve your calloused
conscience by giving them this—
this silk pajamaed pariah as a
watchdog . , . Well, if that’s what
you’re up to, you count Adele out.
She can’t go. I put my foot down
on that. You can sick him onto your
innocent Helen and trusting little
Limpy if you like—if that’s your
idea of Christian duty to young or
phans—but I’ve got King’s X oa
Adele and she can’t go.”
“Well, I’m glad you approve,’ 1
said Olympia beamingly. “Have a
drink, Len? Your seal of approval
relieves me a lot. I wasn’t quite
sure about it in my own mind, but
you’ve settled my doubts.”
“Aw, Ollie, be a sport! Give a fel
low a break, won’t you? Remember
what pals we’ve always been! Re
member the life I’m going to lead
with the brats and the trumpet
yawping at me from every aogltt
(to be cotmmjWi_
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