In the headquarters of the Civic League sat Clive Standish. With him were the committee chosen to conduct his campaign. Karl Ansel, a lean, hard-headed New England giant, their chairman, and incidentally, campaign manager, was going laboriously over a list of counties, towns and villages, corroborating certain notes he made from time to time, by referring to a big colored map of the Mountain State.
“I’ve checked off the places that are directly under the thumb of the C. G. & X.,” Ansel was explaining as the rest of the group leaned over to watch the course of his pencil along the map. “I’m afraid they are as hopelessly in Conover’s grip as Granite itself. It’s in the rural districts, and in the towns that aren’t dependent on the main line, that we must find our strength. It’s an uphill fight at best, with——”
“With a million-and-a-half people who are paying enormous taxes for which they receive scant value, who have thrust on them a legislature and other officials they are forced to elect at the Boss’s order!” finished Standish. “Surely, it’s an uphill fight that’s well worth while, if we can wake men to a sense of their own slavery and the frauds they are forced to connive at. And that’s what we’re going to do.”
The more experienced, if less enthusiastic, Ansel scratched his chin doubtfully.
“The people, as a mass, are slow to wake,” he observed. “Oftener they just open one eye and growl at being bothered, and then roll over and go happily to sleep again while the Boss goes through their pockets. Don’t start this campaign too optimistically, Mr. Standish. And don’t get the idea the people are begging to be waked. If you wake them you’ve got to do it against their will. Not with any help of theirs. Maybe you can. Maybe you can’t. As you say, it’s perhaps worth a try. Even if——”
“But they’ve been waked before,” insisted Standish. “And when they do awaken, there are no half-measures about it. Look how Jerome, on an independent fight, won out against the Machine in 1905. Why should the Mountain State——”
“The people are sleepy by nature,” laughed Ansel. “They wake up with a roar, chase the Boss out of their house, smash the Machine and then go back to bed again with the idea they’re heroes. As soon as their eyes are shut, back strolls the Boss, mends his Machine and reopens business at the old stand. And that’s what you have to look forward to. But we’ve been all over this sort of thing before. I’ll have your ‘speech-route’ made out in an hour, and start a man over it this afternoon to arrange about the halls and the ‘papering’ and the press work. Speaking of press work, I had your candidature telegraphed to New York to the Associated Press early this morning. There’ll be a perfect cloud of reporters up here before night. We must arrange to see them before the Conover crowd can get hold of them. Sympathy from out-of-State papers won’t do us any harm. The country at large has a pretty fair idea of the way Conover runs the Mountain State. And the country likes to watch a good fight against long odds. There’s lots of sympathy for the under dog—as long as the sympathizer has no money on the upper one.”
“How about the sketch of the situation that you were having Craig write out, telling about the stolen franchises, the arbitrary tax-rate, the machine-made candidates, the railroad rule and all that? It ought to prove a good campaign document if he handles the subject well.”
“Oh, he’s handled it all right. I’ve read the rough draft. Takes Conover from the very start. Tells of his boyhood in the yards of the C. G. & X., and how he bullied and schemed until he got into the management’s offices, the string of saloons he ran along the route and the drink-checks he made the men on his section cash in for liquor at his saloons, and all that. Then his career as Alderman, when he found out beforehand where the new reservoir lands and City Hall site were to be, and his buying them up, on mortgage, and clearing his first big pile. And that deal he worked in ‘bearing’ the C. G. & X. stock to $1.10, and scaring everyone out and scooping the pot; that’s brought in, too. And he’s got the story of Conover’s gradually working the railroad against the State and the State against the road, till he had a throat grip on both, and——”
“Wait a moment!” interrupted Standish. “Is all the sketch made up of that sort of thing?”
“Most of it. Good, red-hot——”
“It must be done all over, then. We are not digging up Conover’s personal past, but his influence on the State and on the Democratic Party. I’m not swinging the muckrake or flinging dirt at my opponent. That sort of vituperation——”
“But it’s hot stuff, I tell you, that sort of literature! It helps a lot. You can’t hope to win if you wear kid gloves in a game like this.”
“What’s the use of arguing?” said Standish pleasantly. “If the League was rash enough to choose me to represent it, then the League must put up with my peculiarities. And I don’t intend to rise to the Capitol on any mud piles. If you can show me how Conover’s early frauds and his general crookedness affect the issues of the campaign, then I’ll give you leave to publish his whole biography. But till then let’s run clean, shan’t we?”
“‘Clean?’” echoed Ansel aghast. “I’ve been in this business a matter of twenty-five years, and I never yet heard of a victory won by drawing-room methods. But have your own way. I suppose you know, though, that they’ll rake up every lie and slur against you they can get their hands on?”
“I suppose so. But that won’t affect the general issue either. You don’t seem to realize, Ansel, that this isn’t the ordinary routine campaign. It’s an effort to throw off Boss rule and to free a State. Politics and personalities don’t enter into it at all. I’d as soon have run on the Republican as the Democratic ticket if it weren’t that the Republican Party in this State is virtually dead. The Democratic nominee for governor in the Mountain State is practically the governor-elect. That is why I——”
“Excuse me, Mr. Standish,” said a clerk, entering from the outer office, “Mr. Conover would like a word with you.”
The committee stared at one another, unbelieving.
“H’m!” remarked Ansel, breaking the silence of surprise, “I guess the campaign’s on in earnest, all right. Shall you see him?”
“Yes. Show him in, please, Gardner.”
“He says, sir, he wants to speak with you alone,” added the clerk.
“Tell him the League’s committee are in session, and that he must say whatever he has to say to me in their presence.”
The clerk retired and reappeared a few moments later, ushering in—Gerald Conover.
A grunt of disappointment from Ansel was the first sound that greeted the long youth as he paused irresolute just inside the committee-room door.
“Good morning, Gerald,” said Standish, rising to greet the unexpected visitor; “we thought it was your father who——”
“No. And he didn’t send me here, either,” blurted out Gerald. His pasty face was still twitching, and his usually immaculate collar awry from the recent paternal interview.
“I came here on my own account,” he went on, with the peevish wrath of a child. “I came here to tell you I swing over a hundred votes. Maybe a hundred more. My father says so himself. And I’ve come to join your League.”
A gasp of amazement ran around the table. Then, with a crow of delight, Ansel sprang up.
“Great!” he shouted. “His son! It’s good for more votes than you know, Standish! Why, man, it’s a bonanza! When even a man’s own son can’t——”
Standish cut him short.
“Are you drunk, Gerald?” he asked.
“No, I’m not!” vociferated the lad. “I’m dead cold sober, and I’m doing this with my eyes open. I want to join your League, and I’ll work like a dog for your election.”
“But why? You and I have never been especially good friends. You’ve never shown any interest in politics or ref——”
“Well, I will now, you bet! I’ll make the old man wish he’d packed me off to New York by the first train. He’ll sweat for the way he treated me before he’s done. I suppose I’ve got to work secretly for you, so he won’t suspect. But I’ll do none the less work for that; and I can keep you posted on the other side’s moves, too. If I’m to be tied to this damned one-horse town by Father’s orders till after election, I’ll make him sorry he ever——”
“Good for you!” cried Ansel. “You’ve got the spirit of a man, after all. Here’s a bunch of our membership blanks. Fill this one out, and give the rest to your club friends. We—why, Standish!” he broke off, furious and dumbfounded; for Clive had calmly stepped between the two, taken the membership blank from Gerald’s shaky hand and torn it across.
“We don’t care for members of your sort, Gerald,” he said, with a cold contempt that was worse than a kick. “This League was formed to help our City and State, not to gratify private grudges; for white men, not for curs who want to betray their own flesh and blood. Get out of here!”
“Standish!” protested the horrified Ansel, “you’re crazy! You’re throwing away our best chance. You are——”
“If this apology for a human being is ‘our best chance,’ I’ll throw him out bodily, unless he goes at once,” retorted Clive, advancing on the cowering and utterly astonished boy.
“Why!” sputtered Gerald, as he backed doorward, before the menacing approach of the Leaguer, “I thought you’d want me— I— Oh, I’ll go, then, if you’ve no more sense than that! But I’ll find a way of downing the old man in spite of you! Maybe you’ll be glad enough to get my help when the time comes! I——”
His heels hit against the threshold in his retrograde march. Still declaiming, he stepped over the sill into the outer office, and Clive Standish slammed the door upon him, breaking off his threats in the middle of their fretful outpouring.
“There,” said Clive, returning to the gaping, frowning committeemen, “that’s off our hands. Now let’s get down to business.”
“Mr. Standish,” remarked Ansel, after a moment’s battle with words he found hard to check, “you’re the most Quixotic, impractical idealist that ever got hold of the foolish idea he had a ghost of a chance for success in politics. And,” he added, after a pause, “I’m blest if I don’t think I’d rather lose with a leader like you than win with any other man in the Mountain State.”
Meanwhile, at the head of the great study table in his Pompton Avenue “Mausoleum” sat Caleb Conover, Railroader. And about him, on either side of the board, like feudal retainers of old, were grouped the pick of his lieutenants and henchmen. A rare coterie they were, these Knights of Graft. Separated by ten thousand varying interests, social strata and aspirations, they were as one on the main issue—their blind adherence to the Boss and to the lightest of his orders.
This impelling force was difficult of defining. Love, fear, trust, desire for spoils? Perhaps a little of all four; perhaps much; perhaps an indefinable something apart from these. For the power that draws and holds men to a political leader who possesses neither eloquence, charm nor the qualities of popularity has never been—can never be—clearly defined. Not one great Boss in ten can boast these qualities.
Yet, whatever the reason of Caleb Conover’s dominance, none could for a moment doubt its presence. So ever-present was it that it had long since choked down all opposition from within his own ranks. Once, years before—as the story is still related—when he had first claimed, fought for and won his party preëminence, certain district leaders, eight in all, had plotted his downfall, and had privately selected one of their number to fill his shoes. News of the closed-door meeting which was to ratify this deposition was brought to Caleb by faithful Shevlin. The Railroader, without a word, had started for the back room of the saloon where the conference was in progress. Stalking in on the conspirators, he had gained the centre of their circle before they were well aware of his presence. Hat on head, cigar in mouth, he had swept the ring of faces with his light, steely eyes, noting each man there in one instant-brief glance as he did so. Then, twisting the cigar into one corner of his mouth, he had brought down his fist on the table and demanded:
“How many of you people are with ME?”
Like a pack of eager schoolboys the entire eight were upon their feet, clamoring their fealty. Then, without another word or look, the Master had stamped out of the room; leaving the erstwhile malcontents, as one of them afterward expressed it:
“Standin’ there like a bunch of boiled sheepsheads without a thought but to shake hands with ourselves for havin’ such a grand Boss as Caleb Conover.”
At the Boss’s right in to-day’s conclave sat Billy Shevlin, most trusted and adoring of all his followers. At his left was Guy Bourke, Alderman and the Boss’s jackal. Next to Billy was Bonham, Mayor of Granite, and next Giacomo Baltazzi, who held the whole Italian section force of the C. G. & X. and the Sicilian quarter of Granite in the hollow of his unwashed hand. Beyond was Nicholas Caine, proprietor of the Star, and to his right Beiser, the Democratic State Chairman. Between a second newspaper editor and the President of the Board of Aldermen lounged Kerrigan, the Ghetto saloon-keeper. A sprinkling of railroad men, heelers and district leaders made up the remainder. Conover was speaking:
“And that’s the layout,” said he. “And that’s why I’m not content for this to be just a plain ‘win.’ Two years ago I thought Shearn would be our best man for governor. So I gave the word, and Shearn got in with a decent majority. But it’s got to be a landslide this time, and not a trick’s to be overlooked in the whole hand. Nick, you know the line of editorial policy to start in to-morrow’s Star. And be on the lookout for the first break in any of the League’s speeches. It’s easier to think of a fool thing than not to say it, and those Reform jays are always putting their feet in their mouths when they try to preach politics. And, knowing nothing about the game, they’re sure to talk a heap. They never seem to realize that the man who really practices politics hasn’t time to preach it.”
“I understand,” answered Caine. “Print, as usual, a ‘spread’ on the windy, blundering speeches, and forget to report the others. Same as when——”
“Sure. And pass the ‘press-gag’ sign up-State, too. Standish is certain to make a tour. Beiser,” turning to the portly State Chairman, “I want the county caucuses two weeks from Saturday. I’ve an idea we can work the same old ‘snap’ move in more’n half of them. Pass it on to the county chairman to treble last year’s floaters, and to work the ‘back door’ the way we did in Bowden County in ’97. They understand their business pretty well, most of ’em. And I’ll have Shevlin and Bourke jack up those that don’t, and learn ’em their little lines. Two weeks from Saturday, then. That’s understood? It’ll give us all the time we need, if we hustle. Never mind the other State or city candidates or Congressmen. Those jobs’ll take care of themselves. If the wrong men get into the Assembly or Congress, they’ll get licked into shape quick enough. We’re all right there. I want the whole shove to be made on the Governorship this year. Pass it on! Baltazzi, I hear those dagoes of yours are grouching again. What’s——”
“They say they don’t get nothin’. They say all the good jobs goes to the Irish or Dutch or even Americans, and——”
“Promise ’em something, then.”
“I have. But——”
“Then promise ’em something more. Don’t be stingy. If that don’t satisfy ’em, give me the tip, and I’ll have a ten per cent. drop ordered on the foreign section gangs’ pay, and make Chief Geoghegan pass the word to his cops to make things bad for the pushcart men and organ grinders, and close up the dago saloons an hour early. That’ll bring ’em in a-running. How ’bout litterchoor, Abbott?”
“I’ll start the staff to work on songs to-night,” said a long-haired little man, “and get out a bunch of ‘Friend of the Plain People’ tracts and——”
“Won’t do! ‘Man-of-Experience-and-Benefactor-of-the-State or Ignorant-Meddling-Boy-Reformer. Which-Will-You-Vote-For?’ That’s the racket this time. Guy the whole League crowd. ‘Silk Stockings vs. Laboring Man.’ That’s the idea. Get the cartoonists at work on pictures like Standish making the police sprinkle the streets with Florida water while thugs break into houses, and that sort of thing. ‘What-We-May-Expect-from-Civic-League-Rule.’ Understand? Say, Caine, detail one or two of your men, of course, to look up Standish’s past performances in private life, too. Anything about booze or the cards or any sort of scrape will work up fine just now. The gag’s old, but about a reformer it always makes a hit. Even a bit of a stretch goes. I’ll stand a libel suit or two if it comes to a show-down.”
“How about the out-of-town papers?” queried Caine. “Our regular chain are all right. But the rest——”
“The C. G. & X. owns the Mountain State, don’t it? And it controls ninety per cent. of the mileage of the other roads that run through the State. And wherever there’s towns big enough for a paper there’s a railroad somewhere near. And wherever there’s an editor he wants his passes, don’t he? And a rebate on his freight? Well—don’t you lose sleep over the ‘press-gag.’”
“How about floaters?” asked Bourke. “Same rule and same price?”
“Yes. Subject to change if we’re pressed. Aldermen all right, I s’pose?”
“Haven’t had a chance to sound ’em since you declared yourself,” said the president of that body, “but all except Fowler and Brayle are your own crowd and——”
“Tell Fowler the C. G. & X. will give his firm a tip on the price for the next ‘sealed-bid’ contract for railroad ties. Give Brayle a hint about that indictment against his brother. It was pigeonholed, but if I tried real hard, I might induce the District Attorney to look for it. I tell you,” went on Conover, raising his voice for the first time, and glaring about the table, “every mother’s son, from engine-oiler to Congressman, has got to get down to the job and hustle as he never did before. And I’ve got the means of finding out who hustles and who shirks. And I’ve got the means of paying both kinds. And I guess there isn’t anyone that doubts I can do it. Pass that on, too. Caleb Conover for Governor, and to hell with reform!”