Part 4

In my town politics had an evil odor. For six years a Democrat had been mayor, and for six years the town had been plundered. For six years the Republicans had striven, with might and main, to regain the power ... and the right to plunder. It did not matter which party ruled, graft (let us omit the quotation marks) was the tocsin. The citizens were robbed, openly or covertly, according to the policy of the party in office. There was no independent paper in town; so, from one month's end to another it was leaded editorial vituperation. Then Caliban revolted. An independent party was about to be formed.

The two bosses, however, were equal to the occasion. They immediately hustled around and secured as candidates for the mayoralty two prominent young men whose honesty and integrity were unimpeachable. Caliban, as is his habit, sheathed his sword and went back to his bench, his desk, or whatever his occupation was.

On the Republican side they nominated a rich young club-man. Now, as you will readily agree, it is always written large on the political banner that a man who is rich has no incentive to become a grafter. The public is ever willing to trust its funds to a millionaire. The Democrats, with equal cunning, brought forward a brilliant young attorney, whose income was rather moderate but whose ability and promise were great. The Democratic organs hailed his nomination with delight.

"We want one of the people to represent us, not one of the privileged class." You see, there happened to be no rich young Democrat available.

These two candidates were close personal friends. They had been chums from boyhood and had been graduated from the same college. They belonged to the same clubs, and were acknowledged to be the best horsemen in town. As to social prominence, neither had any advantage over the other, save in the eyes of matrons who possessed marriageable (and extravagant) daughters. Williard, the Republican nominee, was a handsome chap, liberal-minded and generous-hearted, without a personal enemy in the world. I recollect only one fault: he loved the world a little too well. The opposition organs, during the heat of the campaign, dropped vague hints regarding dinners to singers and actresses and large stakes in poker games. Newcomb, his opponent, was not handsome, but he had a fine, clean-cut, manly face, an intrepid eye, a resolute mouth, and a tremendous ambition. He lived well within his income, the highest recommendation that may be paid to a young man of these days.

He threw himself into the fight with all the ardor of which his nature was capable; whereas Williard was content to let the machine direct his movements. The truth is, Williard was indifferent whether he became mayor or not. To him the conflict was a diversion, a new fish to Lucullus; and when the Democratic organs wrote scathing editorials about what they termed his profligate career, he would laugh and exhibit the articles at the club. It was all a huge joke. He made very few speeches, and at no time could he be forced into the foreign districts. He complained that his olfactory nerve was too delicately educated. The leaders swallowed their rancor; there was nothing else for them to do. In Williard's very lack of ambition lay his strength. Poverty would have made a great man out of him; but riches have a peculiar way of numbing the appreciation of the greater and simpler things in life.

Newcomb went everywhere; the Poles hurrahed for him, the Germans, the Irish, the Huns and the Italians. And he made no promises which he did not honestly intend to fulfil. To him the fight meant everything; it meant fame and honor, a comfortable addition to his income, and Washington as a finality. He would purify the Democrats while he annihilated the pretensions of the Republicans. He was what historians call an active dreamer, a man who dreams and then goes forth to accomplish things. His personality was engaging.

Besides all this (for the secret must be told) Newcomb was in love and wished to have all these things to lay at the feet of his beloved, even if she returned them. You will regularly find it to be true that the single man is far more ambitious than his married brother. The latter invariably turns over the contract to his wife.

Williard was deeply in love, too, with Senator Gordon's lovely daughter, and Senator Gordon was that mysterious power which directed the Republican forces in his section of the state. So you may readily believe that Newcomb was forced to put up a better fight than Williard, who stood high in Senator Gordon's favor. The girl and the two young men had been friends since childhood, and nobody knew whether she cared for either of them in the way they desired. Everybody in town, who was anybody, understood the situation; and everybody felt confident that Williard was most likely to win. The girl never said anything, even to her intimate friends; but when the subject was brought up, she smiled in a way that dismissed it.

Such was the political situation at the beginning of the municipal campaign. There have been like situations in any number of cities which boast of one hundred thousand inhabitants or more; perhaps in your town, and yours, and yours. That bugaboo of the politician, reform, brings around this phenomenon about once in every eight years. For a while the wicked ones promise to be good, and you will admit that that helps.

It was amusing to follow the newspapers. They vilified each other, ripped to shreds the character of each candidate, recalled boyhood escapades and magnified them into frightful crimes, and declared in turn that the opposition boss should land in the penitentiary if it took all the type in the composing-rooms to do it. What always strikes me as odd is that, laughter-loving people that we are, nobody laughs during these foolish periods. Instead, everybody goes about, straining his conscience and warping his common-sense into believing these flimsy campaign lies, these outrageous political roorbacks.

When Williard and Newcomb met at the club, at the Saturday-night luncheons, they avoided each other tactfully, each secretly longing to grasp the other's hand and say: "Don't believe a word of it, old boy; it's all tommy-rot." But policy held them at arm's length. What would the voters say if they heard that their respective candidates were hobnobbing at a private club? Newcomb played billiards in the basement while Williard played a rubber at whist up stairs; and the Saturday rides out to the country club became obsolete. Only a few cynics saw the droll side of the situation; and they were confident that when the election was over the friendship would be renewed all the more strongly for the tension.

One night, some weeks before the election, Williard dined alone with the senator at the Gordon home. Betty Gordon was dining elsewhere. With the cognac and cigars, the senator drew out a slip of paper, scrutinized it for a space, then handed it to his protégé.

"That's the slate. How do you like it?"

Williard ran his glance up and down the columns. Once he frowned.

"What's the matter?" asked the senator shrewdly.

"I do not like the idea of Matthews for commissioner of public works. He's a blackleg--there's no getting around that. He practically runs that faro-bank above his down-town saloon. Can't you put some one else in his place?"

The senator flipped the ash from the end of his cigar.

"Honestly, my boy, I agree with your objection; but the word is given, and if we turn him down now, your friend Newcomb will stand a pretty fair show of being the next mayor."

"You might get a worse one," Williard laughed. "Jack is one of the finest fellows in the world," loyally.

"Not a bit of doubt; but politically," said the senator, laughing, "he is a rascal, a man without a particle of character, and all that. But personally speaking, I would that this town had more like him. Win or lose, he will always be welcome in this house. But this Matthews matter; you will have to swallow him or be swallowed."

"He's a rascal."

"Perhaps he is. Once you are elected, however, you can force him out, and be hanged to him. Just now it would be extremely dangerous. My boy, politics has strange bed-fellows, as the saying goes. These men are necessary; to fight them is to cut your own throat. No one knows just how they get their power; but one morning you will wake up and find them menacing you, and you have to placate them and toss them sops."

"I might at least have been consulted."

"I appreciated your antagonism beforehand. Politics is a peculiar business. A man must form about himself a shell as thick as a turtle's, or his feelings are going to be hurt. Now, if you would like to change any of these smaller offices, the health department doesn't matter. What do you say?"

"Oh, if Matthews remains on the slate, I do not care to alter the rest of it. But I warn you that I shall get rid of him at the earliest opportunity."

"Just as you like."

The senator smiled covertly. Matthews was one of his henchmen in the larger matters of state. His name had been the first to appear on the slate, and the senator was determined that it should remain there. Not that he had any liking for the man; simply he was one of the wheels which made the machine run smoothly. The senator knew his power of persuasion; he knew Williard's easy-going nature; but he also knew that these easy-going persons are terribly stubborn at times. He was obliged to hold on to Matthews. The gubernatorial campaign was looming up for the ensuing year, and the senator was curious to learn the real power that went with the seal of a governor of a first-class state.

There fell an intermission to the conversation. Williard smoked thoughtfully. He recalled the years during which he had accepted the generous hospitality of this house, and the love he held for the host's daughter. Only since his return from abroad had he learned the strength of his sentiment. Heretofore he had looked upon the girl as a sister, jolly, talented, a fine dancer, a daring rider, a good comrade. He had been out of the country for three years. On his return he had found Betty Gordon a beautiful woman, and he had silently surrendered. As yet he had said nothing, but he knew that she knew. Yet he always saw the shadow of Newcomb, old Jack Newcomb. Well, let the best man win!

"I can find a way to dispose of Matthews," he said finally.

"I dare say."

But Williard did not know the tenacity with which some men cling to office. The senator did.

Here the servant ushered in two lieutenants of the senator's. One was an ex-consul and the other was the surveyor of customs, who was not supposed to dabble in local politics.

"Everything is agreeable to Mr. Williard," the senator answered in reply to the questioning look of his subordinates. "He vows, however, that he will shake Matthews as soon as he can get the chance."

The new arrivals laughed.

"We'll put you through, young man," said the ex-consul; "and one of these fine days we shall send you to France. That's the place for a man of your wit and wealth."

Williard smiled and lighted a fresh cigar. He did possess the reputation of being a clever wit, and in his secret heart he would much prefer a consulate or a secretaryship at the French embassy. He thoroughly detested this indiscriminate hand-shaking which went with local politics.

But Matthews stuck in his gorge, and he wondered if Newcomb was going through any like ordeal, and if Newcomb would submit so readily.... Why the deuce didn't Betty return? It was almost nine o'clock.

Presently her sunny countenance appeared in the doorway, and Williard dropped his cigar joyfully and rose. It was worth all the politics in the world!

"Gentlemen, you will excuse me," he said.

"Go along!" the senator cried jovially. "We can spare you."

As indeed they very well could!

In a minute Williard was in the music-room.

"I really do not know that I ought to shake hands with you, Dick," began Betty, tossing her hat on the piano. "You have deceived me for years."

"Deceived you! What do you mean?" mightily disturbed.

"Wait a moment." She brought forth a paper. "Sit down in front of me. This is going to be a court of inquiry, and your sins shall be passed in review." He obeyed meekly. "Now listen," the girl went on, mischief in her eyes; "this paper says horrid things about you. It claims that you have given riotous dinners to actresses and comic-opera singers. I classify them because I do not think comic-opera singers are actresses."

"Rot!" said Williard, crossing his legs and eying with pleasure the contours of her face. "Jolly rot!"

"You mustn't say 'jolly' in this country; it's English, and they'll be accusing you of it."

"Well, bally rot; how will that go?"

"That isn't very pretty, but it will pass. Now, to proceed. They say that your private life is profligate."

"Oh, come now, Betty!" laughing diffidently.

"They say that you gamble at poker and win and lose huge sums."

"Your father plays poker in Washington; I've seen him."

"He's not on trial; _you_ are. Furthermore," went on the girl, the twinkle going from her eye, leaving it searching yet unfathomable, "this editor says that you are only a dummy in this game of politics, and that once you are mayor, your signature will be all that will be required of you. That is to say, you will be nothing but a puppet in the hands of the men who brought about your election."

Williard thought of Matthews, and the smile on his lips died.

"Now, Dick, this paper says that it seeks only the truth of things, and admits that you possess certain engaging qualities. What am I to believe?"

"Betty, you know very well that they'll have me robbing widows before election." He was growing restless. He felt that this trial wasn't all play. "If you don't mind, I'd rather talk of something else. Politics, politics, morning, noon and night until my ears ache!"

"Or burn," suggested the girl. "The things they say about your private life--I don't care for them. I know that they are not truths. But the word 'puppet' annoys me." She laid aside the paper.

"Have I ever acted like a dummy, Betty? In justice to me, have I?" He was serious.

"Not in ordinary things."

"No one has ever heard that I broke a promise."

"No."

"Or that I was cowardly."

"No, no!"

"Well, if I am elected, I shall fool certain persons. I am easy-going; I confess to that impeachment; but I have never been crossed successfully."

"They'll know how to accomplish their ends without crossing you. That's a part of the politician's business."

"If I am elected, I'll study ways and means. Hang it, I wasn't running after office. They said that they needed me. As a property owner I had to surrender. I am not a hypocrite; I never was. I can't go honestly among the lower classes and tell them that I like them, shake their grimy hands, hobnob with them at caucuses and in gloomy halls. I am not a politician; my father was not before me; it isn't in my blood. I haven't the necessary ambition. Newcomb's grandfather was a war governor; mine was a planter in the South. Now, Newcomb has ambition enough to carry him to the presidency; and I hope he'll get it some day, and make an ambassador out of me. Sometimes I wish I wasn't rich, so that I might enjoy life as some persons do. To have something to fight for constantly! I am spoiled."

He wheeled his chair toward the fire and rested his elbows on his knees.

"He's very handsome," thought the girl; but she sighed.

II

THAT same evening Newcomb and McDermott, the Democratic leader, met by appointment in McDermott's law offices. McDermott was a wealthy steel-manufacturer who had held various state and national offices. As a business man his policy was absolute honesty. He gave liberal wages, met his men personally, and adjusted their differences. There were as many Republicans as Democrats in his employ. Politics never entered the shop. Every dollar in his business had been honestly earned. He was a born leader, kindly, humorous, intelligent. But once he put on his silk hat and frock coat, a metamorphosis, strange and incomprehensible, took place. He became altogether a different man; cold, purposeful, determined, bitter, tumbling over obstacles without heart or conscience, using all means to gain his devious ends; scheming, plotting, undermining this man or elevating that, a politician in every sense of the word; cunning, astute, long-headed, far-seeing. He was not suave like his old enemy, the senator; he was blunt because he knew the fullness of his power. But for all his bluntness, he was, when need said must, a diplomat of no mean order. If he brought about a shady election, he had the courage to stand by what he had done. He was respected and detested alike.

The present incumbent in the city hall was no longer of use to him. He was wise enough to see that harm to his power would come about in case the reform movement got headway; he might even be dethroned. So his general's eye had lighted on Newcomb, as the senator's had lighted on Williard; only he had mistaken his man, whereas the senator had not.

"My boy," he began, "I'm going to lecture you."

"Go ahead," said Newcomb. "I know what the trouble is. I crossed out Mr. Murphy's name from the list you fixed up for my inspection."

"And his name must go back," smiling. "We can't afford to turn him down at this late day."

"I can," said the protégé imperturbably and firmly.

For a moment their glances met and clashed.

"You must always remember the welfare of the party," gently.

"And the people," supplemented the admonished one.

"Of course," with thin lips. "But Murphy's name must stand. We depend upon the eighth ward to elect you, and Murphy holds it in his palm. Your friend Williard will be forced to accept Matthews for the same reason. It's a game of chess, but a great game."

"Matthews? I don't believe it. Williard would not speak to him on the street, let alone put him on the ticket."

"Wait and see."

"He's a blackleg, a gambler, worse than Murphy."

"And what is your grievance against Murphy? He has always served the party well."

"Not to speak of Mr. Murphy."

"What has he done?"

"He has sold his vote three times in the common council. He sold it once for two thousand dollars in that last pavement deal. I have been rather observant. Let him remain alderman; I can not see my way clear to appoint him to a position in the city hall."

McDermott's eyes narrowed. "Your accusations are grave. If Murphy learns, he may make you prove it."

Newcomb remained silent for a few minutes, his face in thoughtful repose; then having decided to pursue a certain course, he reached into a pigeon-hole of his desk and selected a paper which he gave to McDermott. The latter studied the paper carefully. From the paper his glance traveled to the face of the young man opposite him. He wondered why he hadn't taken more particular notice of the cleft chin and the blue-gray eyes. Had he made a mistake? Was the young fellow's honesty greater than his ambition? McDermott returned the paper without comment.

"Is that proof enough?" Newcomb asked, a bit of raillery in his tones.

"You should have told me of this long ago."

"I hadn't the remotest idea that Murphy's name would turn up. You can very well understand that I can not consider this man's name as an appointee."

"Why hasn't it been turned over to the district attorney?"

"The plaintiff is a patient man. He left it to me. It is a good sword, and I may have to hold it over Mr. Murphy's neck."

McDermott smiled.

"The Democratic party in this county needs a strong tonic in the nature of a clean bill. I want my appointees men of high standing; I want them honest; I want them not for what they have done, but what they may do."

McDermott smiled again. "I have made a mistake in not coming to you earlier. There is a great future for a man of your kidney, Newcomb. You have a genuine talent for politics. You possess something that only a dozen men in a hundred thousand possess, a tone. Words are empty things unless they are backed by a tone. Tone holds the auditor, convinces him, directs him if by chance he is wavering. You are a born orator. Miller retires from Congress next year. His usefulness in Washington has passed. How would you like to succeed him?"

Insidious honey! Newcomb looked out of the window. Washington! A seat among the Seats of the Mighty! A torchlight procession was passing through the street below, and the noise of the fife and drum rose. The world's applause; the beating of hands, the yells of triumph, the laudation of the press--the world holds no greater thrill than this. Art and literature stand pale beside it. But a worm gnawed at the heart of this rose, a canker ate into the laurel. Newcomb turned. He was by no means guileless.

"When I accepted this nomination, I did so because I believed that the party was in danger, and that, if elected, I might benefit the people. I have remained silent; I have spoken but little of my plans; I have made few promises. Mr. McDermott, I am determined, first and foremost, to be mayor in all the meaning of the word. I refuse to be a figure-head. I have crossed out Murphy's name because he is a dishonest citizen. Yes, I am ambitious; but I would forego Washington rather than reach it by shaking Murphy's hand." The blood of the old war-governor tingled in his veins at that moment.

"It must be replaced," quietly.

"In face of that document?"

"In spite of it."

"I refuse!"

"Listen to reason, my boy; you are young, and you have to learn that in politics there's always a bitter pill with the sweet. To elect you I have given my word to Murphy that he shall have the office."

"You may send Mr. Murphy to me," said Newcomb curtly. "I'll take all the blame."

"This is final?"

"It is. And I am surprised that you should request this of me."

"He will defeat you."

"So be it."

McDermott was exceedingly angry, but he could not help admiring the young man's resoluteness and direct honesty.

"You are making a fatal mistake. I shall make an enemy of the man, and I shall not be able to help you. I have a great deal at stake. If we lose the eighth, we lose everything, and for years to come."

"Perhaps. One dishonest step leads to another, and if I should sanction this man, I should not hesitate at greater dishonesty. My honesty is my bread and butter ... and my conscience."

"Corporations have no souls; politics has no conscience. Williard ..."

"My name is Newcomb," abruptly. "In a matter of this kind I can not permit myself to be subjected to comparisons. You brought about my present position in municipal affairs."

"We had need of you, and still need you," confessed the other reluctantly. "The party needs new blood."

"You are a clever man, Mr. McDermott; you are a leader; let me appeal to your better judgment. Murphy is a blackguard, and he would be in any party, in any country. In forcing him on me, you rob me of my self-respect."

McDermott shrugged. "In this case he is a necessary evil. The success of the party depends upon his good will. Listen. Will you find, in all this wide land, a ruling municipality that is incorrupt? Is there not a fly in the ointment whichever way you look? Is not dishonesty fought with dishonesty; isn't it corruption against corruption? Do you believe for a minute that you can bring about this revolution? No, my lad; no. This is a workaday world; Utopia is dreamland. You can easily keep your eye on this man. If he makes a dishonest move, you can find it in your power to remove him effectually. But I swear to you that he is absolutely necessary."

"Well, I will assume the risk of his displeasure."

"Show him your document, and tell him that if he leaves you in the lurch at the polls, you'll send him to prison. That's the only way out." McDermott thought he saw light.

"Make a blackmailer of myself? Hardly."