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Python Advanced Programming: The
Guide to Learn Python Programming.
Reference with Exercises and Samples
About Dynamical Programming,
Multithreading, Multiprocessing,
Debugging, Testing and More

Marcus Richards

Published by Marcus Richards, 2024.

While every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this book,
the publisher assumes no responsibility for errors or omissions, or for
damages resulting from the use of the information contained herein.

PYTHON ADVANCED PROGRAMMING: THE GUIDE TO LEARN PYTHON

PROGRAMMING. REFERENCE WITH EXERCISES AND SAMPLES ABOUT
DYNAMICAL PROGRAMMING, MULTITHREADING, MULTIPROCESSING,
DEBUGGING, TESTING AND MORE

First edition. March 19, 2024.

Copyright © 2024 Marcus Richards.

ISBN: 979-8224869794

Written by Marcus Richards.

 TABLE OF CONTENTS

Title Page

Copyright Page

Chapter 1: Advanced Programming Techniques

Further Procedural Programming

Branching Using Dictionaries

Generator Expressions and Functions

Chapter 2: Dynamic Code Execution

Dynamic Code Execution

Dynamically Importing Modules

Function and Method Decorators

Function Annotations

Chapter 3: Further Object-Oriented Programming

Controlling Attribute Access

Functors
Context Managers

Descriptors

Class Decorators

Abstract Base Classes

Multiple Inheritance

The metaclass

Chapter 4: Functional-Style Programming

Partial Function Application

Coroutines

Performing Independent Actions on Data

Chapter 5: DEBUGGING, TESTING AND PROFILING

Chapter 6: Debugging

Dealing with Syntax Errors

Dealing with Runtime Errors

Scientific Debugging
Unit Testing

Profiling

Chapter 7: Processes and Threading

Using the Multiprocessing Module

Sign up for Marcus Richards's Mailing List

 CHAPTER 1: ADVANCED PROGRAMMING
TECHNIQUES
In this Chapter we will investigate a wide scope of programming
methodologies and present various extra, consistently further created,
Python etymological structure. Bits of the material in this segment is
very trying, yet recall that the most dynamic techniques are now and
again required and you can commonly skim the primary go through to
get an idea of what should be conceivable and scrutinized even more
circumspectly when the need rises.

The part's first area delves all the more profoundly into Python's
procedural highlights. It begins by telling the best way to utilize what
we previously canvassed in a novel manner, and after that profits to
the topic of generators. The segment at that point presents dynamic
programming—stacking modules by name at runtime and executing
self-assertive code at runtime. The area comes back to the subject of
nearby (settled) capacities, however what's more covers the utilization
of the nonlocal watchword and recursive capacities. Prior we
perceived how to utilize Python's predefined decorators—in this
segment we figure out how to make our own decorators. The area
finishes up with inclusion of annotations.

The second part covers all new material relating to object-oriented

program-ming. It starts by the introduction of __slots__, a mechanism
to minimize the memory used by any object. Then, it shows how to
access object attributes without using its properties.
The section also describes functors, and context managers—these are
used in conjunction with the with keyword, and in many cases (e.g.,
file handling) they can be used to replace try ... except ... finally
constructs with simpler try ... except constructs. The section also
shows how to create custom context managers, and introduces
additional advanced features, including class decorators, abstract base
classes, multiple inheritance, and metaclasses.

The third area intoduces some basic concepts of functional

programming, and presents some valuable functions from the
functools, itertools,and administrator modules. This segment
additionally tells the best way to utilize halfway capacity application to
simplify code, and how to make and utilize co-routines.

This chapter takes everything that we have just covered and

transforms it into the "deluxe Python toolbox", with all the first
instruments (tech-niques and punctuations), in addition to numerous
new ones that can make our programming simpler, shorter, and
increasingly viable. A portion of the devices can have tradable uses,
for instance, a few occupations should be possible utilizing either a
class decorator or a metaclass, while others, for example, descriptors,
can be utilized in various approaches to accomplish various impacts. A
portion of the apparatuses secured here, for instance, setting
supervisors, we will utilize constantly, and others will stay prepared
close by for those specific circumstances for which they are the ideal
arrangement.
 FURTHER PROCEDURAL PROGRAMMING

The majority of this area manages additional facilities relating with

procedural programming and functions, yet the absolute first
subsection is diverse in that it shows a helpful programming system
dependent on what we previously covered without presenting any
new syntax.
 BRANCHING USING DICTIONARIES

As we noted before, functions are items like everything else in Python,

and a function’s name is an object reference that alludes to the
functions. On the off chance that we compose a function’s name
without brackets, Python realizes we mean the reference, and we can
transfer such references around simply like any others. We can utilize
this reality to supplant if proclamations that have loads of elif
provisions with a single function call.

We will obseve an intelligent console called dvds-dbm.py, featuring

the following menu:

(A)dd (E)dit (L)ist (R)emove (I)mport e(X)port (Q)uit

The software has a function that gets the user’s decision and which
will return just a legitimate decision, for this situation one of "an", "e",
"l", "r", "I", "x", and "q". Here are two proportional code pieces for
calling the important functions dependent on the user’s decision:

if action == "a":

add_dvd(db)

elif action == "e":

edit_dvd(db)
elif action == "l":

list_dvds(db)

elif action == "r":

remove_dvd(db)

elif action == "i":

import_(db)

elif action == "x":

export(db)

elif action == "q":

quit(db)
functions = dict(a=add_dvd, e=edit_dvd, l=list_dvds, r=remove_dvd,
i=import_, x=export, q=quit)

functions[action](db)
The decision is held as a one-character string in the activity variable,
and the database to be utilized is held in the db variable. The
import_() function has a trailing underscore to keep it distinct from
the built-in import proclamation.

In the correct hand code piece we make a lexicon whose keys are the
legitimate menu decisions, and whose qualities are function
references. In the second proclamation we recover the function
reference comparing to the given activity and call the function alluded
to utilizing the call administrator, (), and in this model, passing the db
contention. Not exclusively is the code on the right-hand side a lot
shorter than the code on the left, yet in addition it can scale (have
unmistakably more word reference things) without influencing its
performance, dissimilar to one side hand code whose speed relies
upon what number of elifs must be tried to locate the suitable
function to call.

The convert-incidents.py program uses this technique in its import_()

method, as this extract from the method shows:

call = {(".aix", "dom"): self.import_xml_dom,

(".aix", "etree"): self.import_xml_etree,

(".aix", "sax"): self.import_xml_sax,

(".ait", "manual"): self.import_text_manual,

(".ait", "regex"): self.import_text_regex,

(".aib", None): self.import_binary,

(".aip", None): self.import_pickle}

result = call[extension, reader](filename)

The total method is 13 lines in length; the expansion parameter is

processed in the method, and the reader is passed in. The word
reference keys are 2-tuples, and the qualities are methods. On the off
chance that we had utilized if statements, the code would be 22 lines
in length, and would not scale also.
 GENERATOR EXPRESSIONS AND
FUNCTIONS

It is additionally conceivable to make generator expressions. These

are syntactically nearly identical to list comprehensions, the distinction
being that they are encased in paantheses instead of backets. Here
are their syntaxes:

(expression for item in iterable)

(expression for item in iterable if condition)

Here are two equal code bits that show how a simple for ... in loop
containing a yield articulation can be coded as a generator:

def items_in_key_order(d): def items_in_key_order(d):

for key in sorted(d): return ((key, d[key])

yield key, d[key] for key in sorted(d))

Both functions return a generator that produces a list of key–value

items for the given dictionary. If we need all the items in one go we
can pass the generator returned by the
Another Random Scribd Document
with Unrelated Content
 Roger Oakley had unearthed him at the gas-house, a melancholy,
tattered ruin. He had rented a room for his occupancy, and had
conveyed him thither under cover of the night. During the week that
followed, while Jeffy was convalescent, he spent his evenings there
reading to him from the Bible.
Jeffy would have been glad to escape these attentions. This new
moral force in the community inspired an emotion akin to awe. Day
by day, as he recognized the full weight of authority in Roger
Oakley's manner towards him, this awe increased, until at last it
developed into an acute fear. So he kept his bed and meditated
flight. He even considered going as far away as Buckhom or Harrison
to be rid of the old man. Then, by degrees, he felt himself weaken
and succumb to the other's control. His cherished freedom—the
freedom of the woods and fields, and the drunken spree variously
attained, seemed only a happy memory. But the last straw was put
upon him, and he rebelled when his benefactor announced that he
was going to find work for him.
At first Jeffy had preferred not to take this seriously. He assumed
to regard it as a delicate sarcasm on the part of his new friend. He
closed first one watery eye and then the other. It was such a good
joke. But Roger Oakley only reiterated his intention with
unmistakable seriousness. It was no joke, and the outcast promptly
sat up in bed, while a look of slow horror overspread his face.
“But I ain't never worked, Mr. Oakley,” he whined, hoarsely. “I
don't feel no call to work. The fact is, I am too busy to work. I would
be wasting my time if I done that. I'd be durn thankful if you could
reform me, but I'll tell you right now this ain't no way to begin. No,
sir, you couldn't make a worse start.”
“It's high time you went at something,” said his self-appointed
guide and monitor, with stony conviction, and he backed his opinion
with a quotation from the Scriptures.
Now to Jeffy, who had been prayerfully brought up by a pious
mother, the Scriptures were the fountain-head of all earthly wisdom.
To invoke a citation from the Bible was on a par with calling in the
town marshal. It closed the incident so far as argument was
concerned. He was vaguely aware that there was one text which he
had heard which seemed to give him authority to loaf, but he
couldn't remember it.
Roger Oakley looked at him rather sternly over the tops of his
steel-rimmed spectacles, and said, with quiet determination, “I am
going to make a man of you. You've got it in you. There's hope in
every human life. You must let drink alone, and you must work.
Work's what you need.”
“No, it ain't. I never done a day's work in my life. It'd kill me if I
had to get out and hustle and sweat and bile in the sun. Durnation!
of all fool ideas! I never seen the beat!” He threw himself back on
the bed, stiff and rigid, and covered his face with the sheet.
For perhaps a minute he lay perfectly still. Then the covers were
seen to heave tumultuously, while short gasps and sobs were
distinctly audible. Presently two skinny but expressive legs habited in
red flannel were thrust from under the covers and kicked violently
back and forth.
A firm hand plucked the sheet from before the outcast's face, and
the gaunt form of the old convict bent grimly above him.
“Come, come, Jeffy, I didn't expect this of you. I am willing to help
you in every way I can. I'll get my son to make a place for you at
the shops. How will you like that?”
“How'll I like it? You ought to know me well enough to know I
won't like it a little bit!” in tearful and indignant protest. “You just
reach me them pants of mine off the back of that chair. You mean
well, I'll say that much for you, but you got the sweatiest sort of a
religion; durned if it ain't all work! Just reach me them pants, do
now,” and he half rose up in his bed, only to encounter a strong arm
that pushed him back on the pillows.
“You can't have your pants, Jeffy, not now. You must stay here
until you get well and strong.”
“How am I going to get well and strong with you hounding me to
death? I never seen such a man to take up with an idea and stick to
it against all reason. It just seems as if you'd set to work to break
my spirit,” plaintively.
Roger Oakley frowned at him in silence for a moment, then he
said:
“I thought we'd talked all this over, Jeffy.”
“I just wanted to encourage you. I was mighty thankful to have
you take hold. I hadn't been reformed for over a year. It about
seemed to me that everybody had forgotten I needed to be
reformed, and I was willing to give you a chance. No one can't ever
say I ain't stood ready to do that much.”
“But, my poor Jeffy, you will have to do more than that.”
“Blamed if it don't seem to me as if you was expecting me to do it
all!”
The old convict drew up a chair to the bedside and sat down.
“I thought you told me you wanted to be a man and to be
respected?” said this philanthropist, with evident displeasure.
Jeffy choked down a sob and sat up again. He gestured freely with
his arms in expostulation.
“I was drunk when I said that. Yes, sir, I was as full as I could
stick. Now I'm sober, I know rotten well what I want.”
“What do you want, Jeffy?”
“Well, I want a lot of things.”
“Well, what, for instance?”
“Well, sir, it ain't no prayers, and it ain't no Bible talks, and it ain't
no lousy work. It's coming warm weather. I want to lay up along the
crick-bank in the sun and do nothing—what I always done. I've had
a durned hard winter, and I been a-living for the spring.”
A look of the keenest disappointment clouded Roger Oakley's face
as Jeffy voiced his ignoble ambitions. His resentment gave way to
sorrow. He murmured a prayer that he might be granted strength
and patience for his task, and as he prayed with half-closed eyes,
the outcast plugged his ears with his fingers. He was a firm believer
in the efficacy of prayer, and he felt he couldn't afford to take any
chances.
Roger Oakley turned to him with greater gentleness of manner
than he had yet shown.
“Don't you want the love and confidence of your neighbors, Jeffy?”
he asked, pityingly.
“I ain't got no neighbors, except the bums who sleep along of me
at the gas-house winter nights. I always feel this way when I come
off a spree; first it seems as if I'd be willing never to touch another
drop of licker as long as I lived. I just lose interest in everything, and
I don't care a durn what happens to me. Why, I've joined the Church
lots of times when I felt that way, but as soon as I begin to get well
it's different. I am getting well now, and what I told you don't count
any more. I got my own way of living.”
“But what a way!” sadly.
“Maybe it ain't your way, and maybe it ain't the best way, but it
suits me bully. I can always get enough to eat by going and asking
some one for it, and you can't beat that. No, sir. You know durn well
you can't!” becoming argumentative. “It just makes me sick to think
of paying for things like vittles and clothes. A feller's got to have
clothes, anyhow, ain't he? You know mighty well he has, or he'll get
pinched, and supposing I was to earn a lot of money, even as much
as a dollar a day, I'd have to spend every blamed cent to live. One
day I'd work, and then the next I'd swaller what I'd worked for.
Where's the sense in that? And I'd have all sorts of ornery worries
for fear I'd lose my job.” A look of wistful yearning overspread his
face. “Just you give me the hot days that's coming, when a feller's
warm clean through and sweats in the shade, and I won't ask for no
money. You can have it all!”
That night, when he left him, Roger Oakley carefully locked the
door and pocketed the key, and the helpless wretch on the bed,
despairing and miserable, and cut off from all earthly hope, turned
his face to the white wall and sobbed aloud.
 CHAPTER IX

T
HEY were standing on the street corner before the hotel.
Oakley had just come up-town from the office. He was full of
awkward excuses and apologies, but Mr. Emory cut them
short.
“I suppose I've a right to be angry at the way you've avoided us,
but I'm not. On the contrary, I'm going to take you home to dinner
with me.”
If Dan find consulted his preferences in the matter, he would have
begged off, but he felt he couldn't, without giving offence; so he
allowed the doctor to lead him away, but he didn't appear as pleased
or as grateful as he should have been at this temporary release from
the low diet of the American House.
Miss Emory was waiting for her father on the porch. An errand of
hers had taken him downtown.
She seemed surprised to see Oakley, but graciously disposed
towards him. While he fell short of her standards, he was decidedly
superior to the local youth with whom she had at first been inclined
to class him. Truth to tell, the local youth fought rather shy of the
doctor's beautiful daughter. Mr. Burt Smith, the gentlemanly druggist
and acknowledged social leader, who was much sought after by the
most exclusive circles in such centres of fashion as Buckhorn and
Harrison, had been so chilled by her manner when, meeting her on
the street, he had attempted to revive an acquaintance which dated
back to their childhood, that he was a mental wreck for days
afterwards, and had hardly dared trust himself to fill even the
simplest prescription.
When the Monday Club and the Social Science Club and the
History Club hinted that she might garner great sheaves of culture
and enlightenment at their meetings, Constance merely smiled
condescendingly, but held aloof, and the ladies of Antioch were
intellectual without her abetment. They silently agreed with the
Emorys' free-born help, who had seen better days, that she was
“haughty proud” and “stuck up.”
Many was the informal indignation meeting they held, and many
the vituperate discussion handed down concerning Miss Emory, but
Miss Emory went her way with her head held high, apparently
serenely unconscious of her offence against the peace and quiet of
the community.
It must not be supposed that she was intentionally unkind or
arrogant. It was unfortunate, perhaps, but she didn't like the
townspeople. She would have been perfectly willing to admit they
were quite as good as she. The whole trouble was that they were
different, and the merits of this difference had nothing to do with
the case. Her stand in the matter shocked her mother and amused
her father.
Dr. Emory excused himself and went into the house. Dan made
himself comfortable on the steps at Miss Emory's side. In the very
nearness there was something luxurious and satisfying. He was
silent because he feared the antagonism of speech.
The rest of Antioch had eaten its supper, principally in its shirt-
sleeves, and was gossiping over front gates, or lounging on front
steps. When Antioch loafed it did so with great singleness of
purpose.
Here and there through the town, back yards had been freshly
ploughed for gardens. In some of these men and boys were burning
last year's brush and litter. The smoke hung heavy and undispersed
in the twilight. Already the younger hands from the car-shops had
“cleaned up,” and, dressed in their best clothes, were hurrying back
down-town to hang about the square and street corners until it was
time to return home and go to bed.
Off in the distance an occasional shrill whistle told where the
ubiquitous small boy was calling a comrade out to play, and every
now and then, with a stealthy patter of bare feet, some coatless
urchin would scurry past the Emorys' gate.
It was calm and restful, but it gave one a feeling of loneliness,
too; Antioch seemed very remote from the great world where things
happened, or were done. In spite of his satisfaction, Dan vaguely
realized this. To the girl at his side, however, the situation was
absolutely tragic. The life she had known had been so different, but
it had been purchased at the expense of a good deal of
inconvenience and denial on the part of her father and mother. It
was impossible to ask a continuance of the sacrifice, and it was
equally impossible to remain in Antioch. She did not want to be
selfish, but the day was not far off when it would resolve itself into a
question of simple self-preservation. She had not yet reached the
point where she could consider marriage as a possible means of
escape, and, even if she had, it would not have solved the problem,
for whom was she to marry?
There was a tired, fretful look in her eyes. She had lost something
of her brilliancy and freshness. In her despair she told herself she
was losing everything.
“I was with friends of yours this afternoon, Mr. Oakley,” she said,
by way of starting the conversation.
“Friends of mine, here?”
“Yes. The Joyces.”
“I must go around and see them. They have been very kind to my
father,” said Dan, with hearty good-will.
“How long is your father to remain in Antioch, Mr. Oakley?”
inquired Constance.
“As long as I remain, I suppose. There are only the two of us, you
know.”
“What does he find to do here?”
“Oh,” laughed Dan, “he finds plenty to do. His energy is something
dreadful. Then, too, he's employed at the shops; that keeps him
pretty busy, you see.”
 But Miss Emory hadn't known this before. She elevated her
eyebrows in mild surprise. She was not sure she understood.
“I didn't know that he was one of the officers of the road,” with
deceptive indifference.
“He's not. He's a cabinet-maker,” explained the literal Oakley, to
whom a cabinet-maker was quite as respectable as any one else.
There was a brief pause, while Constance turned this over in her
mind. It struck her as very singular that Oakley's father should be
one of the hands. Perhaps she credited him with a sensitiveness of
which he was entirely innocent.
She rested her chin in her hands and gazed out into the dusty
street.
“Isn't it infinitely pathetic to think of that poor little man and his
work?” going back to Joyce. “Do you know, I could have cried? And
his wife's faith, it is sublime, even if it is mistaken.” She laughed in a
dreary fashion. “What is to be done for people like that, whose lives
are quite uncompensated?”
To Oakley this opened up a field for future speculation, but he
approved of her interest in Joyce. It was kindly and sincere, and it
was unexpected. He had been inclined to view her as a proud young
person, unduly impressed with the idea of her own beauty and
superiority. It pleased him to think he had been mistaken.
They were joined by the doctor, who had caught a part of what
Constance said, and divined the rest.
“You see only the pathos. Joyce is just as well off here as he
would be anywhere else, and perhaps a little better. He makes a
decent living with his pictures.” As he spoke he crossed the porch
and stood at her side, with his hand resting affectionately on her
shoulder.
“I guess there's a larger justice in the world than we conceive,”
said Oakley.
“But not to know, to go on blindly doing something that is really
very dreadful, and never to know!”
 She turned to Oakley. “I am afraid I rather agree with your father.
He seems happy enough, and he is doing work for which there is a
demand.”
“Would you be content to live here with no greater opportunity
than he has?”
Oakley laughed and shook his head.
“No. But that's not the same. I'll pull the Huckleberry up and make
it pay, and then go in for something bigger.”
“And if you can't make it pay?”
“I won't bother with it, then.”
“But if you had to remain?”
Oakley gave her an incredulous smile.
“That couldn't be possible. I have done all sorts of things but stick
in what I found to be undesirable berths; but, of course, business is
not at all the same.”
“But isn't it? Look at Mr. Ryder. He says that he is buried here in
the pine-woods, with no hope of ever getting back into the world,
and I am sure he is able, and journalism is certainly a business, like
anything else.”
Oakley made no response to this. He didn't propose to criticise
Ryder, but, all the same, he doubted his ability.
“Griff's frightfully lazy,” remarked the doctor. “He prefers to settle
down to an effortless sort of an existence rather than make a
struggle.”
“Don't you think Mr. Ryder extremely clever, Mr. Oakley?”
“I know him so slightly, Miss Emory; but no doubt he is.”
Mrs. Emory appeared in the doorway, placid and smiling.
“Constance, you and Mr. Oakley come on in; dinner's ready.”
When Dan went home that night he told himself savagely that he
would never go to the Emorys' again. The experience had been most
unsatisfactory. In spite of Constance's evident disposition towards
tolerance where he was concerned, she exasperated him. Her
unconscious condescension was a bitter memory of which he could
not rid himself. Certainly women must be petty, small-souled
creatures if she was at all representative of her sex. Yet, in spite of
his determination to avoid Constance, even at the risk of seeming
rude, he found it required greater strength of will than he possessed
to keep away from the Emorys.
He realized, in the course of the next few weeks, that a new stage
in his development had been reached. Inspired by what he felt was
a false but beautiful confidence in himself, he called often, and, as
time wore on, the frequency of these calls steadily increased. All this
while he thought about Miss Emory a great deal, and was sorry for
her or admired her, according to his mood.
In Constance's attitude towards him there was a certain fickleness
that he resented. Sometimes she was friendly and companionable,
and then again she seemed to revive all her lingering prejudices and
was utterly indifferent to him, and her indifference was the most
complete thing of its kind he had ever encountered.
Naturally Dan and Ryder met very frequently, and when they met
they clashed. It was not especially pleasant, of course, but Ryder
was persistent and Oakley was dogged. Once he started in pursuit of
an object, he never gave up or owned that he was beaten. In some
form he had accomplished everything he set out to do; and if the
results had not always been just what he had anticipated, he had at
least had the satisfaction of bringing circumstances under his
control. He endured the editor's sarcasms, and occasionally
retaliated with a vengeance so heavy as to leave Griff quivering with
the smart of it.
Miss Emory found it difficult to maintain the peace between them,
but she admired Dan's mode of warfare. It was so conclusive, and
he showed such grim strength in his ability to look out for himself.
But Dan felt that he must suffer by any comparison with the
editor. He had no genius for trifles, but rather a ponderous capacity.
He had worked hard, with the single determination to win success.
He had the practical man's contempt, born of his satisfied ignorance
for all useless things, and to his mind the useless things were those
whose value it was impossible to reckon in dollars and cents.
He had been well content with himself, and now he felt that
somehow he had lost his bearings. Why was it he had not known
before that the mere strenuous climb, the mere earning of a salary,
was not all of life? He even felt a sneaking envy of Ryder of which he
was heartily ashamed.
Men fall in love differently. Some resist and hang back from the
inevitable, not being sure of themselves, and some go headlong,
never having any doubts. With characteristic singleness of purpose,
Dan went headlong; but of course he did not know what the trouble
was until long after the facts in the case were patent to every one,
and Antioch had lost interest in its speculations as to whether the
doctor's daughter would take the editor or the general manager, for,
as Mrs. Poppleton, the Emorys' nearest neighbor, sagely observed,
she was “having her pick.”
To Oakley Miss Emory seemed to accumulate dignity and reserve
in the exact proportion that he lost them, but he was determined
she should like him if she never did more than that.
She was just the least bit afraid of him. She knew he was not
deficient in a proper pride, and that he possessed plenty of self-
respect, but for all that he was not very dexterous. It amused her to
lead him on, and then to draw back and leave him to flounder out of
some untenable position she had beguiled him into assuming.
She displayed undeniable skill in these manoeuvres, and Dan was
by turns savage and penitent. But she never gave him a chance to
say what he wanted to say.
Ryder made his appeal to her vanity. It was a strong appeal. He
was essentially presentable and companionable. She understood
him, and they had much in common, but for all that her heart
approved of Oakley. She felt his dominance; she realized that he was
direct and simple and strong. Yet in her judgment of him she was
not very generous. She could not understand, for instance, how it
was that he had been willing to allow his father to go to work in the
shops like one of the common hands. It seemed to her to argue
such an awful poverty in the way of ideals.
The old convict was another stumbling-block. She had met him at
the Joyces', and had been quick to recognize that he and Dan were
very much alike—the difference was merely that of age and youth.
Indeed, the similarity was little short of painful. There was the same
simplicity, the same dogged stubbornness, and the same devotion to
what she conceived to be an almost brutal sense of duty. In the case
of the father this idea of duty had crystallized in a strangely literal
belief in the Deity and expressed itself with rampant boastfulness at
the very discomforts of a faith which, like the worship of Juggernaut,
demanded untold sacrifices and apparently gave nothing in return.
She tried to stifle her growing liking for Oakley and her unwilling
admiration for his strength and honesty and a certain native
refinement. Unconsciously, perhaps, she had always associated
qualities of this sort with position and wealth. She divined his lack of
early opportunity, and was alive to his many crudities of speech and
manner, and he suffered, as he knew he must suffer, by comparison
with the editor; but, in spite of this, Constance Emory knew deep
down in her heart that he possessed solid and substantial merits of
his own.
 CHAPTER X

K
ENYON came to town to remind his Antioch friends and
supporters that presently he would be needing their votes.
He was Ryder's guest for a week, and the Herald recorded
his movements with painstaking accuracy and with what its editor
secretly considered metropolitan enterprise. The great man had his
official headquarters at the Herald office, a ramshackle two-story
building on the west side of the square. Here he was at home to the
local politicians, and to such of the general public as wished to meet
him. The former smoked his cigars and talked incessantly of
primaries, nominations, and majorities—topics on which they
appeared to be profoundly versed. Their distinguishing mark was
their capacity for strong drink, which was far in excess of that of the
ordinary citizen who took only a casual interest in politics. The
Herald's back door opened into an alley, and was directly opposite
that of the Red Star saloon. At stated intervals Mr. Kenyon and Mr.
Ryder, followed by the faithful, trailed through this back door and
across the alley, where they cheerfully exposed themselves to such
of the gilded allurements of vice as the Red Star had to offer.
The men of Antioch eschewed front doors as giving undue
publicity to the state of their thirst, a point on which they must have
been very sensitive, for though a number of saloons flourished in the
town, only a few of the most reckless and emancipated spirits were
ever seen to enter them.
Kenyon was a sloppily dressed man of forty-five or thereabouts,
who preserved an air of rustic shrewdness. He was angular-faced
and smooth-shaven, and wore his hair rather long in a tangled mop.
He was generally described in the party papers as “The Picturesque
Statesman from Old Hanover.” He had served one term in Congress;
prior to that, by way of apprenticeship, he had done a great deal of
hard work and dirty work for his party. His fortunes had been built
on the fortunes of a bigger and an abler man, who, after a fight
which was already famous in the history of the State for its
bitterness, had been elected Governor, and Kenyon, having picked
the winner, had gone to his reward. Just now he had a shrewd idea
that the Governor was anxious to unload him, and that the party
leaders were sharpening their knives for him. Their change of heart
grew out of the fact that he had “dared to assert his independence,”
as he said, and had “played the sneak and broken his promises,” as
they said, in a little transaction which had been left to him to put
through.
Personally Ryder counted him an unmitigated scamp, but the
man's breezy vulgarity, his nerve, and his infinite capacity to jolly
tickled his fancy.
He had so far freed himself of his habitual indifference that he was
displaying an unheard-of energy in promoting Kenyon's interest. Of
course he expected to derive certain very substantial benefits from
the alliance. The Congressman had made him endless promises, and
Ryder saw, or thought he saw, his way clear to leave Antioch in the
near future. For two days he had been saying, “Mr. Brown, shake
hands with Congressman Kenyon,” or, “Mr. Jones, I want you to
know Congressman Kenyon, the man we must keep at Washington.”
He had marvelled at the speed with which the statesman got
down to first names. He had also shown a positive instinct as to
whom he should invite to make the trip across the alley to the Red
Star, and whom not. Mr. Kenyon said, modestly, when Griff
commented on this, that his methods were modern—they were
certainly vulgar.
“I guess I'm going to give 'em a run for their money, Ryder. I can
see I'm doing good work here. There's nothing like being on the
ground yourself.”
It was characteristic of him that he should ignore the work Ryder
had done in his behalf.
“You are an inspiration, Sam. The people know their leader,” said
the editor, genially, but with a touch of sarcasm that was lost on
Kenyon, who took himself quite seriously.
“Yes, sir, they'd 'a' done me dirt,” feelingly, “but I am on my own
range now, and ready to pull off my coat and fight for what's due
me.”
They were seated before the open door which looked out upon
the square. Kenyon was chewing nervously at the end of an unlit
cigar, which he held between his fingers. “When the nomination is
made I guess the other fellow will discover I 'ain't been letting the
grass grow in my path.” He spat out over the door-sill into the street.
“What's that you were just telling me about the Huckleberry?”
“This new manager of Cornish's is going to make the road pay,
and he's going to do it from the pockets of the employés,” said
Ryder, with a disgruntled air, for the memory of his interview with
Dan still rankled.
“That ain't bad, either. You know the Governor's pretty close to
Cornish. The general was a big contributor to his campaign fund.”
Ryder hitched his chair nearer his companion's.
“If there's a cut in wages at the shops—and I suppose that will be
the next move—there's bound to be a lot of bad feeling.”
“Well, don't forget we are for the people.” remarked the
Congressman, and he winked slyly.
Ryder smiled cynically.
“I sha'n't. I have it in for the manager, anyhow.”
“What's wrong with him?”
“Oh, nothing, but a whole lot,” answered Griff, with apparent
indifference.
At this juncture Dr. Emory crossed the square from the post-office
and paused in front of the Herald building.
“How's Dr. Emory?” said Kenyon, by way of greeting.
Ryder had risen.
“Won't you come in and sit down, doctor?” he inquired.
 “No, no. Keep your seat, Griff. I merely strolled over to say how
d'ye do?”
Kenyon shot past the doctor a discolored stream. That gentleman
moved uneasily to one side.
“Don't move,” said the statesman, affably. “Plenty of room
between you and the casing.”
He left his chair and stood facing the doctor, and unpleasantly
close. “Say, our young friend here's turned what I intended to be a
vacation into a very busy time. He's got me down for speeches and
all sorts of things, and it will be a wonder if I go home to Hanover
sober. I won't if he can help it, that's dead sure. Won't you come in
and have something?—just a little appetizer before supper?”
“No, I thank you.”
“A cigar, then?” fumbling in his vest-pocket with fingers that were
just the least bit unsteady.
“No, I must hurry along.”
“We hope to get up again before Mr. Kenyon leaves town,” said
Ryder, wishing to head the statesman off. He was all right with such
men as Cap Roberts and the Hon. Jeb Burrows, but he had failed
signally to take the doctor's measure. The latter turned away.
“I hope you will, Griff,” he said, kindly, his voice dwelling with the
least perceptible insistence on the last pronoun.
“Remember me to the wife and daughter,” called out Kenyon, as
the physician moved up the street with an unusual alacrity.
It was late in the afternoon, and the men from the car-shops were
beginning to straggle past, going in the direction of their various
homes. Presently Roger Oakley strode heavily by, with his tin dinner-
pail on his arm. Otherwise there was nothing, either in his dress or
appearance, to indicate that he was one of the hands. As he still
lived at the hotel with Dan, he felt it necessary to exercise a certain
care in the matter of dress. As he came into view the Congressman
swept him with a casual scrutiny; then, as the old man plodded on
up the street with deliberate step, Kenyon rose from his chair and
stood in the doorway gazing after him.
“What's the matter, Sam?” asked Ryder, struck by his friend's
manner.
“Who was that old man who just went past?”
“That? Oh, that's the manager's father. Why?”
“Well, he looks most awfully like some one else, that's all,” and he
appeared to lose interest.
“No, he's old man Oakley. He works in the shops.”
“Oakley?”
“Yes, that's his name. Why?” curiously.
“How long has he been here, anyhow?”
“A month perhaps, maybe longer. Do you know him?”
“I've seen him before. A cousin of mine, John Kenyon, is warden
of a prison back in Massachusetts. It runs in the blood to hold office.
I visited him last winter, and while I was there a fire broke out in the
hospital ward, and that old man had a hand in saving the lives of
two or three of the patients. The beggars came within an ace of
losing their lives. I saw afterwards by the papers that the Governor
had pardoned him.”
Ryder jumped up with sudden alacrity.
“Do you remember the convict's full name?” Kenyon meditated a
moment; then he said:
“Roger Oakley.”
The editor turned to the files of the Herald.
“I'll just look back and see if it's the same name. I've probably got
it here among the personals, if I can only find it. What was he
imprisoned for?” he added.
“He was serving a life sentence for murder, I think, John told me,
but I won't be sure.”
“The devil, you say!” ejaculated Ryder. “Yes, Roger Oakley, the
name's the same.”
 “I knew I couldn't be mistaken. I got a pretty good memory for
names and faces. Curious, ain't it, that he should turn up here?”
Ryder smiled queerly as he dropped the Herald files back into the
rack.
“His son is manager for Cornish here. He's the fellow I was telling
you about.”
Kenyon smiled, too.
“I guess you won't have any more trouble with him. You've got
him where you can hit him, and hit him hard whenever you like.”
 CHAPTER XI

R
OGER OAKLEY carried out his threat to find work for Jeffy. As
soon as the outcast was able to leave his bed, he took him
down to the car-shops, which were destined to be the scene
of this brief but interesting industrial experiment.
It was early morning, and they found only Clarence there. He was
sweeping out the office—a labor he should have performed the night
before, but, unless he was forcibly detained, he much preferred to
let it go over, on the principle that everything that is put off till the
morrow is just so much of a gain, and, in the end, tends to reduce
the total of human effort, as some task must necessarily be left
undone.
As Roger Oakley pushed open the door and entered the office in
search of his son, his charge, who slunk and shuffled after him with
legs which bore him but uncertainly, cast a long and lingering look
back upon the freedom he was leaving. The dignity of labor, on
which his patron had been expatiating as they walked in the
shortening shadows under the maples, seemed a scanty recompense
for all he was losing. A deep, wistful sigh escaped his lips. He turned
his back on the out-of-doors and peered over the old man's shoulder
at Clarence with bleary eyes. Of course, he knew Clarence. This was
a privilege not denied the humblest. Occasionally the urchin called
him names, more often he pelted him with stones. The opportunities
for excitement were limited in Antioch, and the juvenile population
heedfully made the most of those which existed.
Jeffy was a recognized source of excitement. It was not as if one
stole fruit or ran away from school. Then there was some one to
object, and consequences; but if one had fun with Jeffy there was
none to object but Jeffy, and, of course, he didn't count.
“Is my son here, Clarence?” asked Roger Oakley.
 “Nope. The whistle ain't blowed yet. I am trying to get the place
cleaned up before he comes down,” making slaps at the desks and
chairs with a large wet cloth. “What you going to do with him, Mr.
Oakley?”
He nodded towards Jeffy, who seemed awed by the
unaccustomedness of his surroundings, for he kept himself hidden
back of the old man, his battered and brimless straw hat held
nervously in his trembling fingers.
“I am going to get work for him.”
“Him work! Him! Why, he don't want no work, Mr. Oakley. He's too
strong to work.” And Clarence went off into gales of merriment at
the mere idea.
For an instant Jeffy gazed in silence at the boy with quickly
mounting wrath, then he said, in a hoarse tremolo:
“You durned little loafer! Don't you give me none of your lip!”
Clarence had sufficiently subsided to remark, casually: “The old
man'd like to know what you got for that horse-blanket and whip
you stole from our barn. You're a bird, you are! When he was willing
to let you sleep in the barn because he was sorry for you!”
“You lie, durn you!” fiercely. “I didn't steal no whip or horse-
blanket!”
“Yes, you did, too! The old man found out who you sold 'em to,”
smiling with exasperating coolness.
The outcast turned to Roger Oakley. “Nobody's willing to let by-
gones be by-gones,” and two large tears slid from his moist eyes.
Then his manner changed abruptly. He became defiant, and, step-
ing from behind his protector, shook a long and very dirty forefinger
in Clarence's face.
“You just tell Chris Berry this from me—I'm done with him. I don't
like no sneaks, and you just tell him this—he sha'n't never bury me.”
“I reckon he ain't sweatin' to bury any paupers,” hastily interjected
the grinning Clarence. “The old man ain't in the business for his
health.”
 “And if he don't stop slandering me”—his voice shot up out of its
huskiness—“if he don't stop slandering me, I'll fix him!” He turned
again to Roger Oakley. “Them Berrys is a low-lived lot! I hope you
won't never have doings with 'em. They'll smile in your face and
then do you dirt behind your back; I've done a lot for Chris Berry,
but I'm durned if I ever lift my hand for him again.”
Perhaps he was too excited to specify the exact nature of the
benefits which he had conferred upon the undertaker. Clarence
ignored the attack upon his family. He contented himself with
remarking, judiciously: “Anybody who can slander you's got a future
ahead of him. He's got unusual gifts.”
Here Roger Oakley saw fit to interfere in behalf of his protégé. He
shook his head in grave admonition at the grinning youngster. “Jeffy
is going to make a man of himself. It's not right to remember these
things against him.”
“They know rotten well that's what I'm always telling 'em. Let by-
gones be by-gones—that's my motto—but they are so ornery they
won't never give me a chance.”
“It's going to be a great shock to the community when Jeffy starts
to work, Mr. Oakley,” observed Clarence, politely. “He's never done
anything harder than wheel smoke from the gas-house. Where you
going to put up, Jeffy, when you get your wages?”
“None of your durn lip!” screamed Jeffy, white with rage.
“I suppose you'll want to return the horse-blanket and whip. You
can leave 'em here with me. I'll take 'em home to the old man,”
remarked the boy, affably. “I wouldn't trust you with ten cents; you
know mighty well I wouldn't,” retorted Jeffy.
“Good reason why—you ain't never had that much.”
Dan Oakley's step was heard approaching the door, and the wordy
warfare ceased abruptly. Clarence got out of the way as quickly as
possible, for he feared he might be asked to do something, and he
had other plans for the morning.
Jeffy was handed over to McClintock's tender mercies, who put
him to work in the yards.
 It was pay-day in the car-shops, and Oakley posted a number of
notices in conspicuous places about the works. They announced a
ten-per-cent, reduction in the wages of the men, the cut to go into
effect immediately.
By-and-by McClintock came in from the yards. He was hot and
perspiring, and his check shirt clung moistly to his powerful
shoulders. As he crossed to the water-cooler, he said to Dan:
“Well, we've lost him already. I guess he wasn't keen for work.”
Oakley looked up inquiringly from the letter he was writing.
“I mean Jeffy. He stuck to it for a couple of hours, and then Pete
saw him making a sneak through the cornfield towards the crick. I
haven't told your father yet.”
Dan laughed.
“I thought it would be that way. Have you seen the notices?”
“Yes,” nodding.
“Heard anything from the men yet?”
“Not a word.”
McClintock returned to the yards. It was the noon hour, and in the
shade of one of the sheds he found a number of the hands at lunch,
who lived too far from the shops to go home to dinner.
“Say, Milt,” said one of these, “have you tumbled to the notices?—
ten per cent, all round. You'll be having to go down in your sock for
coin.”
“It's there all right,” cheerfully.
“I knew when Cornish came down here there would be something
drop shortly. I ain't never known it to fail. The old skinflint! I'll bet he
ain't losing any money.”
“You bet he ain't, not he,” said a second, with a short laugh.
The first man, Branyon by name, bit carefully into the wedge-
shaped piece of pie he was holding in his hand. “If I was as rich as
Cornish I'm damned if I'd be such an infernal stiff! What the hell
good is his money doing him, anyhow?”
 “What does the boss say, Milt?”
“That wages will go back as soon as he can put them back.”
“Yes, they will! Like fun!” said Branyon, sarcastically.
“You're a lot of kickers, you are,” commented McClintock, good-
naturedly. “You don't believe for one minute, do you, that the
Huckleberry or the shops ever earned a dollar?”
“You can gamble on it that they ain't ever cost Cornish a red cent,”
said Branyon, as positively as a mouthful of pie would allow.
“I wouldn't be too sure about that,” said the master-mechanic,
walking on.
“I bet he ain't out none on this,” remarked Branyon, cynically. “If
he was he wouldn't take it so blamed easy.”
The men began to straggle back from their various homes and to
form in little groups about the yards and in the shops. They talked
over the cut and argued the merits of the case, as men will, made
their comments on Cornish, who was generally conceded to be as
mean in money matters as he was fortunate, and then went back to
their work when the one-o'clock whistle blew, in a state of high
good-humor with themselves and their critical ability.
The next day the Herald dealt with the situation at some length.
The whole tone of the editorial was rancorous and bitter. It spoke of
the parsimony of the new management, which had been instanced
by a number of recent dismissals among men who had served the
road long and faithfully, and who deserved other and more
considerate treatment. It declared that the cut was but the
beginning of the troubles in store for the hands, and characterized it
as an attempt on the part of the new management to curry favor
with Cornish, who was notoriously hostile to the best interests of
labor. It wound up by regretting that the men were not organized, as
proper organization would have enabled them to meet this move on
the part of the management.
When Oakley read the obnoxious editorial his blood grew hot and
his mood belligerent. It showed evident and unusual care in the
preparation, and he guessed correctly that it had been written and
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