Brian Garfield by Manifest Destiny Page A

assumed they’d have known each other; such was the transcendent freemasonry of wealth.
    Medora said to her husband, “I’m sure someone will introduce you to Teedie, dear.” She smiled again at Joe and then at Pack, disarming him completely, as she always did. The way Joe saw it, Pack was more than just a little bit in love with the lady. So were most of the men in Billings County, if it came to that.
    Joe indicated the vestibule of the train. “Here he comes now.”
    *    *    *
    Quite some time later it was Mrs. Reuter, on one of her rare visits to town, who remarked to Joe on the irony of how Roosevelt had stepped down from the train lugging his own valises, while Madame De Morès had arrived in her private car with trunks, servants & c. The irony, Mrs. Reuter said, was in the fact that—from what she read—Roosevelt must have inherited considerably more personal wealth than De Morès.
    â€œI mentioned it to Arthur Packard,” she was to say to Joe, “but it was lost on him. I’m afraid he’s a bit young yet for irony, isn’t he.”
    With a grimace Theodore Roosevelt heaved his goods forward, coming down the step.
    The sandy mustache was more weighty. Under it was that huge mouthful of tombstone teeth with which he rapidly chopped words into pieces.
    â€œHere, here! Make way! Gentlemen, gentlemen, kindly be so good as to make way!”
    The clipped talk in the thin strident voice was accompanied by those same facial squints and contortions of shoulders and elbows; had his arms been unencumbered with belongings he’d have been flailing like a drowning man.
    Showing a certain deference the crowd made room. Roosevelt set down his valises. “Joe Ferris. Is Joe Ferris about? Joe?”
    Joe made his reluctant way forward. He hadn’t forgotten the adversities of last year’s misadventure. “Right here, Mr. Roosevelt.”
    Roosevelt clapped him on the arm. “By Godfrey, it’s good to see you again, Joe.” He endeavored to grin. But it was strained. It came to Joe that he was acting out a performance. It didn’t have the old enthusiasm inside.
    The dude coughed. He was having trouble breathing but that wasn’t it; that was his usual state. Joe sensed a melancholia in him: a new deep agony of pain.
    Joe said, “Sir, some people here want to meet you …”
    Pack stepped forward. “Mr. Roosevelt—”
    There was a moment’s pinched displeasure on the dude’s face; then Roosevelt turned as Joe made the introduction: “Mr. Roosevelt—Arthur Packard. Publishes the newspaper here.”
    When Roosevelt heard the word “newspaper” a remnant of his politician’s grin appeared; his hand wandered forward. Accompanying the emphatic but somehow unexcited “Dee-lighted to meet you” was his solid double-grip handshake—Joe had been the victim of it and knew it was quite firm, in contradiction to his apparent fragility.
    â€œDee-lighted.” The eyes quickly lost their flash; they became somber again and it was as if Roosevelt hardly heard Pack’s words:
    â€œNow, if I could have a few moments—your opinions about the Chicago convention, the political—”
    â€œI think not,” said Roosevelt, turning away. “I came out here for the climate. I’ve retired from politics.”
    â€œSir, I’m sure my readers would like to know your view of the election ahead.”
    â€œI have no view,” Roosevelt piped. “None whatever.” He bent to gather his valises. “Joe, lead the way.”
    Joe was troubled. It seemed uncharacteristic for Roosevelt to refuse the opportunity of a platform from which to deliver his opinions.
    Pack tried another flank. “Now, sir—if you’ve got just one moment, the Marquis De Morès asked especially to meet you.”
    It stopped Roosevelt. Again a momentary interest