BIG KENNEDY'S commands concerning the Tin Whistles taught me that
lurking somewhere in the election situation he smelled peril to himself.
Commonly, while his methods might be a wide shot to the left of the
lawful, they were never violent. He must feel himself hard pressed to
call for fist and club. He lived at present cross-purposes with sundry
high spirits of the general organization; perhaps a word was abroad for
his disaster and he had heard some sigh of it. This would be nothing
wonderful; coarse as he seemed fibered, Big Kennedy had spun his web
throughout the ward as close-meshed as any spider, and any fluttering
proof of treason was certain to be caught in it.
The election, while the office at local bay came to be no weightier than
that of Alderman, was of moment to Big Kennedy. Defeat would mean
his eclipse, and might even spell his death of politics. To lose the
Alderman was to let fall the reins of ward direction. The Alderman and
his turtle-devouring fellows cracked the whip over the police whom they
appointed or dismissed, and the police were a ballot-engine not to be
resisted. He who held the Alderman, held the police; and he who had the
police, carried victory between his hands.
Doubtless it was some inner-circle treachery which Big Kennedy
apprehended. The regular opposition, while numerous and carrying on
its muster rolls the best respectability of the ward, lacked of that
organization which was the ridgepole of Big Kennedy's supremacies.
It straggled, and was mob-like in its movements; and while, as I've
written, it showed strong in numbers, it was no more to be collected or
fashioned into any telling force for political effort than a flock of
grazing sheep. If there were to come nothing before him more formidable
than the regular opposition, Big Kennedy would go over it like a train
of cars and ask no aid of shoulder-hitters. Such innocent ones might
stand three deep about a ballot-box, and yet Big Kennedy would take from
it what count of votes he chose and they be none the wiser. It would
come to no more than cheating a child at cards.
The open opposition to Big Kennedy was made up of divers misfit
elements. At its head, as a sort of captain by courtesy, flourished
that reputable peppery old gentleman who aforetime took my part against
Sheeny Joe. A bit in love with his own eloquence, and eager for a forum
wherein to exercise it, the reputable old gentleman had named himself
for Alderman against Big Kennedy's candidate. As a campaign scheme
of vote-getting--for he believed he had but to be heard to convince
a listener--the reputable old gentleman engaged himself upon what he
termed a house-to-house canvass.
It was the evening of that day whereon Big Kennedy gave me those orders
touching the Tin Whistles when the reputable old gentleman paid a visit
to Old Mike, that Nestor being as usual on his porch and comforting
himself with a pipe. I chanced to be present at the conversation,
although I had no word therein; I was much at Old Mike's knee during
those callow days, having an appetite for his counsel.
“Good-evening, sir,” said the reputable old gentleman, taking a chair
which Old Mike's politeness provided, “good-evening, sir. My name
is Morton--Mr. Morton of the Morton Bank. I live in Lafayette Place.
Incidentally, I am a candidate for the office of Alderman, and I thought
I'd take the freedom of a neighbor and a taxpayer and talk with you on
that topic of general interest.”
“Why then,” returned Old Mike, with a cynical grin, “I'm th' daddy of
Big Jawn Kennedy, an' for ye to talk to me would be loike throwin' away
your toime.”
The reputable old gentleman was set aback by the news. Next he took
heart of grace.
“For,” he said, turning upon Old Alike a pleasant eye, although just a
dash of the patronizing showed in the curve of his brow, “if I should be
so fortunate as to explain to you your whole duty of politics, it might
influence your son. Your son, I understand, listens greatly to your
word.”
“He would be a ba-ad son who didn't moind his own father,” returned Old
Mike. “As to me jooty av politics--it's th' same as every other man's.
It's the jooty av lookin' out for meself.”
This open-air selfishness as declared by Old Mike rather served to shock
the reputable old gentleman.
“And in politics do you think first of yourself?” he asked.
“Not only first, but lasht,” replied Old Mike. “An' so do you; an' so
does every man.”
“I cannot understand the narrowness of your view,” retorted the
reputable old gentleman, somewhat austere and distant. “You are a
respectable man; you call yourself a good citizen?”
“Why,” responded Old Mike, for the other's remark concluded with a
rising inflection like a question, “I get along with th' p'lice; an' I
get along with th' priests--what more should a man say!”
“Are you a taxpayer?”
“I have th' house,” responded Old Mike, with a smile.
The reputable old gentleman considered the other dubiously. Evidently he
didn't regard Old Mike's one-story cottage as all that might be desired
in the way of credentials. Still he pushed on.
“Have you given much attention to political economy?” This with an
erudite cough. “Have you made politics a study?”
“From me cradle,” returned Old Mike. “Every Irishman does. I knew so
much about politics before I was twinty-one, th' British Government
would have transhported me av I'd stayed in Dublin.”
“I should think,” said the reputable old gentleman, with a look of one
who had found something to stand on, “that if you ran from tyranny in
Ireland, you would refuse here to submit to the tyranny of Tammany Hall.
If you couldn't abide a Queen, how can you now put up with a Boss?”
“I didn't run from th' Queen, I ran from th' laws,” said Old Mike. “As
for the Boss--everything that succeeds has a Boss. The President's a
boss; the Pope's a boss; Stewart's a boss in his store down in City
Hall Park. That's right; everything that succeeds has a boss. Nothing is
strong enough to stand the mishtakes av more than one man. Ireland would
have been free th' long cinturies ago if she'd only had a boss.”
“But do you call it good citizenship,” demanded the reputable old
gentleman, not a trifle nettled by Old Mike's hard-shell philosophy of
state; “do you call it good citizenship to take your orders from a boss?
You are loyal to Tammany before you are loyal to the City?”
“Shure!” returned Old Mike, puffing the puffs of him who is undisturbed.
“Do ye ever pick up a hand in a game av ca-ards?” The reputable old
gentleman seemed properly disgusted. “There you be then! City Government
is but a game; so's all government, Shure, it's as if you an' me were
playin' a game av ca-ards, this politics; your party is your hand, an'
Tammany is my hand. In a game of ca-ards, which are ye loyal to, is it
your hand or the game? Man, it's your hand av coorse! By the same token!
I am loyal to Tammany Hall.”
That closed the discussion; the reputable old gentleman went his way,
and one might tell by his face that the question to assail him was
whether he had been in a verbal encounter with a Bedlamite or an
Anarchist. He did not recognize me, nor was I sorry. I liked the
reputable old gentleman because of that other day, and would not have
had him discover me in what he so plainly felt to be dangerous company.
“He's a mighty ignorant man,” said Old Mike, pointing after the
reputable old gentleman with the stem of his pipe. “What this country
has mosht to fear is th' ignorance av th' rich.”
It stood perhaps ten of the clock on the morning of election day when,
on word sent me, I waited on Big Kennedy in his barroom. When he had
drawn me into his sanctum at the rear, he, as was his custom, came
pointedly to the purpose.
“There's a fight bein' made on me,” he said. “They've put out a lot of
money on the quiet among my own people, an' think to sneak th' play on
me.” While Big Kennedy talked, his eyes never left mine, and I could
feel he was searching me for any flickering sign that the enemy had been
tampering with my fealty. I stared back at him like a statue. “An',”
went on Big Kennedy, “not to put a feather-edge on it, I thought I'd run
you over, an' see if they'd been fixin' you. I guess you're all right;
you look on the level.” Then swinging abruptly to the business of the
day; “Have you got your gang ready?”
“Yes,” I nodded.
“Remember my orders. Five-thirty is the time. Go for the blokes with
badges--th' ticket peddlers. An' mind! don't pound'em, chase'em. Unless
they stop to slug with you, don't put a hand on'em.”
Being thus re-instructed and about to depart, I made bold to ask Big
Kennedy if there were any danger of his man's defeat. He shook his head.
“Not a glimmer,” he replied. “But we've got to keep movin'. They've put
out stacks of money. They've settled it to help elect the opposition
candidate--this old gent, Morton. They don't care to win; they're only
out to make me lose. If they could take the Alderman an' the police away
from me, they would go in next trip an' kill me too dead to skin. But
it's no go; they can't make th' dock. They've put in their money; but
I'll show'em a trick that beats money to a standstill.”
It was as I had surmised; Big Kennedy feared treachery and the underhand
support of the enemy by men whom he called his friends. For myself, I
would stand by him. Beg Kennedy was the only captain I knew.
To the commands of Big Kennedy, and their execution, I turned with
as ready a heart as ever sent duck to drink. No impulse to disobey or
desert so much as crossed my slope of thought. Tammany Hall has ever
been military in its spirit. Big Kennedy was my superior officer, I but
a subaltern; it was my province to accept his commands and carry them
forward without argument or pause.
In full and proper season, I had my Tin Whistles in hand. I did not
march them to the polling place in a body, since I was not one to
obstreperously vaunt or flaunt an enterprise in advance. Also, I was too
much the instinctive soldier to disclose either my force or my purpose,
and I knew the value of surprise.
There were a round twenty of my Tin Whistles, each a shoulder-hitter
and warm to shine in the graces of Big Kennedy. I might have recruited
a double strength, but there was no need. I had counted the foe; the
poll-tenders of the opposition numbered but ten; my twenty, and each a
berserk of his fists, ought to scatter them like a flock of sparrows. My
instructions given to my fellows were precisely Big Kennedy's orders as
given to me; no blows, no blood unless made necessary by resistance.
As the time drew down for action, my Tin Whistles were scattered about,
sticking close to the elbows of the enemy, and waiting the signal. The
polling booth was a small frame construction, not much larger than a
Saratoga trunk. On other occasions it served as the office of a wood and
coal concern. The table, with the ballot-box thereon, stood squarely
in the door; behind it were the five or six officers--judges and tally
clerks--of election. There was a crush and crowd of Big Kennedy's
clansmen to entirely surround the little building, and they so choked
up the path that ones who had still to vote couldn't push through. There
arose, too, a deal of shoving and jostling, and all to a running uproar
of profanity; affairs appeared to be drifting towards the disorderly.
The reputable old gentleman, his face red with indignation, was moving
to and fro on the outskirts of the crowd, looking for a police officer.
He would have him cut a way through the press for those who still owned
votes. No officer was visible; the reputable old gentleman, even though
he searched with that zeal common of candidates anxious for success,
would have no aid from the constabulary.
“And this is the protection,” cried the reputable old gentleman,
striding up to Big Kennedy, and shaking a wrathful finger in his face,
“that citizens and taxpayers receive from the authorities! Here are
scores of voters who are being blocked from the polls and robbed of
their franchise. It's an outrage!”
Big Kennedy smiled upon the reputable old gentleman, but made no other
reply.
“It's an outrage!” repeated the reputable old gentleman in a towering
fury. “Do you hear? It's an outrage on the taxpaying citizens of this
town!”
“Look out, old man!” observed a young fellow who stood at Big Kennedy's
side, and who from his blackened hands and greasy blue shirt seemed to
be the engineer of some tug. “Don't get too hot. You'll blow a cylinder
head.”
“How dare you!” fumed the reputable old gentleman; “you, a mere boy by
comparison! how dare you address me in such terms! I'm old enough, sir,
to be your father! You should understand, sir, that I've voted for a
president eight times in my life.”
“That's nothin',” returned the other gayly; “I have voted for a
president eighty times before ten o'clock.”
In the midst of the laugh that followed this piece of characteristic
wit, Big Kennedy crossed to where I stood.
“Send your boys along!” said he. “Let's see how good you are.”
My whistle screamed the signal. At the first sharp note, a cry went up:
“The Tin Whistles! The Tin Whistles!”
It was done in a moment; a pair to a man, my Tin Whistles were sending
their quarry down the streets as fast as feet might follow. And they
obeyed directions; not a blow was struck, no blood was drawn; there was
a hustling flurry, and the others took to their heels. The hard repute
of the Tin Whistles was such that no ten were wild enough to face them
or meet their charge.
As the Tin Whistles fell upon their victims, the press of men that
surged about the polling place began to shout, and strain, and tug.
Suddenly, the small building commenced to heave and lift suspiciously.
It was as though an earthquake were busy at its base. The mob about the
structure seemed to be rolling it over on its side. That would be
no feat, with men enough to set hand upon it and carry it off like a
parcel.
With the first heave there came shouts and oaths from those within.
Then arose a crashing of glass, and the table was cast aside, as the
threatened clerks and judges fought to escape through door and window.
In the rush and scamper of it, a sharp hand seized the ballot-box.
Ten minutes the riot raged. It was calmed by Big Kennedy, who forced
himself into the middle of the tumult, hurling men right and left with
his powerful hands as though they were sacks of bran, while he commanded
the peace in a voice like the roar of a lion.
Peace fell; the little building, which had not been overthrown, but only
rocked and tipped, settled again to a decorous safe solidity; the judges
and the clerks returned; the restored ballot-box again occupied the
table.
As that active one, who had saved the ballot-box when the downfall of
the building seemed threatened came edgewise through the throng, he
passed close to Big Kennedy. The latter gave him a sharp glance of
inquiry.
“I stuffed it full to the cover,” whispered the active one. “We win four
to one, an' you can put down your money on that!”
Big Kennedy nodded, and the zealot who saved the ballot-box passed on
and disappeared.
When the Tin Whistles fell upon their prey, I started to go with them.
But in a moment I saw there was no call; the foe went off at top flight,
and my twenty would keep them moving. Thus reasoning, I turned again to
see what was going forward about the booth.
My interest was immediately engaged by the words and actions of the
reputable old gentleman, who, driven to frenzy, was denouncing. Big
Kennedy and all who wore his colors as scoundrels without measure or
mate.
“I defy both you and your plug-uglies,” he was shouting, flourishing his
fist in the face of Big Kennedy, who, busy with his own plans, did not
heed him. “This is a plot to stuff the ballot-box.”
The reputable old gentleman had gone thus far, when a hulking creature
of a rough struck him from behind with a sandbag. I sprang forward, and
fended away a second blow with my left arm. As I did so, I struck the
rough on the jaw with such vengeful force that, not only did he drop
like some pole-axed ox, but my right hand was fairly wrecked
thereby. Without pausing to discover my own condition or that of the
sandbag-wielding ruffian, I picked up the reputable old gentleman and
bore him out of the crowd.
The reputable old gentleman had come by no serious harm; he was stunned
a trifle, and his hat broken. With me to hold him up, he could stand on
his feet, though still dazed and addled from the dull power of the blow.
I beckoned a carriage which Big Kennedy had employed to bring the old
and infirm to the polling place. It came at my signal, and I placed the
reputable old gentleman inside, and told the driver to take him to his
home. The reputable old gentleman was murmuring and shaking his head
as he drove away. As I closed the carriage door, he muttered: “This
is barbarous! That citizens and taxpayers should receive such
treatment------” The balance was lost in the gride of the wheels.
The hurly-burly had now ceased; all was as calm and equal as a goose
pond.
“So you saved the old gentleman,” said Big Kennedy, as he came towards
me. “Gratitude, I s'pose, because he stood pal to you ag'inst Sheeny
Joe that time. Gratitude! You'll get over that in time,” and Big Kennedy
wore a pitying look as one who dwells upon another's weakness. “That was
Jimmy the Blacksmith you smashed. You'd better look out for him after
this.” My dander was still on end, and I intimated a readiness to look
out for Jimmy the Blacksmith at once.
“Mind your back now!” cautioned Big Kennedy, “and don't take to gettin'
it up. Let things go as they lay. Never fight till you have to, d'ye
see! an' never fight for fun. Don't go lookin' for th' Blacksmith until
you hear he's out lookin' for you.” Then, as shifting the subject: “It's
been a great day, an' everything to run off as smooth an' true as sayin'
mass. Now let's go back and watch'em count the votes.”
“Did we beat them?” I asked.
“Snowed'em under!” said Big Kennedy.